


the only one that makes you come (running)

by acid_glue234



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/F, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Party, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa stares at Clarke and Clarke stares right back with this look, and somehow they end up in Raven’s room on top of Raven’s bed.</p><p>or</p><p>the clexa AU where Clarke asks for more than she bargained for and Lexa doesn’t disappoint</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It should’ve never happened, but it did.

Inebriation is always the best excuse, and Lexa would blame it all on that if it didn’t seem like a cheap lie; see, Clarke has this boyfriend, and Lexa knows Clarke adores him, because he’s awesome, and Lexa would have to agree; he’s smart and kind, and he cares about Clarke so so much, like, almost as much as Lexa, but that’s pretty impossible, so not  _that_ much.

Lexa only wants what’s best for her best friend like any best friend would, but there’s something wrong…

“Well, maybe  _wrong_ isn’t the right word,” Clarke says, but it sure _sounds_ like there’s something wrong; looks like it too, if the conflicted expression on Clarke’s face is anything to go by, but Lexa’s drunk and Clarke’s drunk too, so who really knows?

They’re at Lexa and Raven’s apartment, and there’s a party going on—Raven’s idea—because they’re young and they have alcohol to waste, so “Let’s get fucked up, guys!” Raven yells as she turns up the music and then chants Jasper and Miller on as they both chug down three cans of beer in a row.

Lexa hates beer but she’s drinking it anyway because they’ve run out of vodka, all that’s left is dark, and mixing is a big no-no. She lives by one motto and one motto only:  _liquor before beer, you’re in the clear_ —and she trusts it with all her heart…and her liver.

It’s gotten to that point of the night where they’re eight shots and two cans of beer in, past the point of no return, and Clarke’s hanging on Lexa’s shoulder and complaining about her sex life.

Lexa’s frown feels a lot like a smile, but it’s a pity, really; that Wells can’t get it up. “He’s a little young for that, isn’t he? Maybe he should see a doctor or something.”

Clarke snorts and almost spits out her sip of beer on the carpet. “Not _that_ kinda problem, jeez, Lex.”

She punches Lexa in the shoulder and now it’s _her_ who almost gets beer on the carpet. Clarke gets punchy when she’s drunk; that and blabbery, always saying whatever comes to her mind.

Lexa’s used to it, but she has her quirks too: _“Oh, I’m blabbery?” Clarke once said, baffled. “At least I don’t get so cocky to the point of accepting whatever challenge given.”_

And that’s where they find themselves now, because Wells apparently sucks at giving head, but Lexa’s a fucking champ; “It’s called experience,” she tells Clarke, but Clarke narrows her eyes—she’s either thinking or just too fucked up, Lexa doesn’t know, but she gets her answer when Clarke goes, “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“That you’re good at… _you know_.”

Lexa chuckles; it’s funny that Clarke won’t say it. “What, you want me to call someone to vouch for me?”

“No, I want you to, you know,” Clarke trails off, smiling all drunkenly, her cheeks flushed fuchsia from too many shots, “… _prove_ it.”

There’s a long pause, and it’s Lexa who narrows her eyes this time.

Wait, what is she…

Everything is silent (besides the head-banging music; thanks, Raven), but then Clarke bites her lip and…— _oh_.

Lexa laughs and then stumbles to the side— _damn vodka_ —but Clarke grabs her wrist and pulls her back over. They almost headbutt, and Clarke burps and then laughs with her.

Someone passes by and says, “Drunk bitches,” and Lexa’s pretty sure it was Raven, but who knows at this point? She can barely remember the last words Clarke just said until she does, and…

…oh.

Lexa stares at Clarke and Clarke stares right back with this _look_ , and somehow they end up in Raven’s room on top of Raven’s bed.

 _She’s so gonna kill us_ , Lexa keeps thinking, but then she gets distracted by Clarke—Clarke clumsily pulling down her pants, Clarke widening her legs, Clarke’s drunken giggle as Lexa settles between her bare thighs and says, “You smell _really_ good, like better than most girls.”

It happens even though it shouldn't—they’re best friends, and Clarke has a boyfriend, and there’s a party going on right outside, and they’re both drunk, and Raven’s bed is underneath them—but it happens anyway.

Three hard knocks on the door stop it, and then there’s yelling, “Open this goddamn door, Woods!”

Lexa comes up for air and wonders how they got caught—that’s right, Clarke was moaning her name, but Lexa could’ve sworn she wasn’t being _that_ loud. Or maybe she was.

Was she?

What time is it?

Where’s Clarke’s underwear?

“Shit, shit, _shit_.”

It’s Clarke who’s cursing as she hurries to pull up her skinny jeans and almost trips on her way to unlock the door. Lexa’s haze is slower to clear but once it does—fuck, it _really_ does.

There’s a taste on her tongue that shouldn’t be there, should _never_ be there, and there’s a butt indent on Raven’s bed that shouldn’t be there either, and Lexa’s heart drops to her stomach; oh no, oh no, oh no.

Raven is on the other side of the door, and she’s mad, like, _enraged_. “What the hell are you guys doing? And on _my_ _bed?_ Yours is right down the hall, Lexa!”

Besides Raven’s yelling, it’s oddly quiet now, and Octavia is standing wide-eyed in the doorway, peeking over Raven’s shoulder at the two of them with a look of total shock. And because this night can’t get any worse—oh wait, yes it can—Octavia goes, “The speakers blew out five minutes ago. We’ve been knocking for three. _Everyone_ heard.”

Lexa’s never went from drunk to sober so fast in her entire life, and her head spins. Everything tilts upright and then back to sideways. Where’s Clarke? Where’s Clarke?  _Where’s Clarke?_

“She grabbed her coat and ran out. Octavia’s with her.”

Raven.

It’s Raven’s voice beside her, and it’s Raven’s hand in her hand, pulling her down the hallway and into, “Don’t you losers have anything better to do than gawk? C'mon, _drink_ , dance or whatever! Monty, fix the damn speakers!”

The music comes right back on, or maybe it’s been on? It’s blasting, too loud suddenly, and all eyes are on her; they’re staring and judging and staring, and Lexa looks to Raven and Raven looks back, and Lexa asks, “Where’s Clarke?”

She never gets an answer.

She vomits instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgot to mention this last time; title is a lyric from the prince song "i wanna be your lover"

Lexa's never hated the morning after more than she does right now. She's hungover, it's too bright, the smell of bacon is making her stomach turn, and she gave her best friend head last night to prove a point that she can't even remember.

She needs some bacon-free air, like _yesterday_ , and so she takes her phone, her blanket, and a bottle of water out onto the fire escape.

It's a crisp morning, but the birds are chirping; the first signs of spring, and Lexa inhales a breath to clear her mind. It doesn't work. She takes a sip of her water and rinses her mouth out, spits over the railing. The taste of Clarke is still on her tongue, and she doesn't know what makes her feel more nauseous; her hangover or the _taste_.

A few minutes pass and then Raven comes out to stand next to her. She's quiet for a moment, but she's Raven, so of course she jumps right to it, "You and _Clarke,_ Lexa?" She sounds exasperated but not pissed—not as pissed as she was last night, at least.

It should've never happened, but because it did, Lexa bows her head guiltily and says, "I'm sorry it happened on your bed."

"Don't worry about it, I already burned the sheets."

Lexa wants to laugh but the joke's not even funny, and so she huffs out a breath of air and rubs at her eyes.

"How long has this been going on for?" Raven asks, eventually.

"Just last night," she pauses to think, collect her thoughts, " _Only_ last night." But she feels like she owes somebody an explanation, if not herself, and so she goes, "We were drunk, and it started off as flirty banter, but then she challenged me, and the next thing I knew—"

"Clarke's thighs were pressed against your ears?"

Lexa's face falls into her hands. " _Shit_."

It happened, and it hit her before, of course—it hit hours ago—but now that she's actually sober and Raven is confirming it...

Lexa squeezes her eyes shut at a headache thats cause is an equal result of alcohol and regret. She can still see the look on Clarke's face after that first knock on the door, and Lexa _knows_ , without even having to talk to Clarke, that she feels the same way—if hightailing it out of their apartment didn't give it away, her mortified expression sure did.

"But that's all it was?" Raven probes. "A drunken lickjob?"

"How did you—"

"Our walls are like paper maché, Lexa," Raven tells her, "We could all hear Clarke's moaning, and holy smokes, the _mouth_ on that girl. And what she was grunting on about...it left very little to the imagination, if you catch my drift."

Lexa groans again and then chugs down some more water. That damn _taste_ won't go away. And with the taste comes the memories— _all of the memories_ —of Clarke slurring, _Nice try_ , when Lexa tried to kiss her, and then Clarke sending her down to her knees—of Clarke's breathing, from steady to hitched to barely breathing at all—of Clarke panting, _That's it, Lexa, that's it_ —of Clarke's hand in her hair, gripping tighter, _tighter_.

Raven actually has the audacity to laugh. "How does that even happen? I mean, Octavia's _my_ best friend, and she's hot and all, but I could never even _think_ of—"

"I feel sick," Lexa mumbles, and God, she also feels like she's about to cry. She's heard of people making stupid decisions while drunk—hell, she's been there before—but not like this, _never_ like this. Clarke is...well, they've been friends since freshmen year of college, best friends since sophomore year, and all of that may be ruined now, so, "Fuck, what do I do?"

Raven looks stumped. After a long moment, where it actually looks like she's thinking it through, a lame shrug is all she offers and then, "Sorry, I don't know the proper damage control etiquette for giving your best friend—who has a _boyfriend_ —a lickjob."

"Can you stop calling it that?"

"What, a lickjob?" Now there's three reasons for her headache. Lexa gives Raven a dull look and so Raven gives her one right back and says, "So you rather me call it sex?"

Somehow sex makes it sound all too real, and Lexa shudders, but then again— _lickjob_ makes it sound cheap and entirely inaccurate considering she did a lot more down there than just...lick.

Lexa cringes, and oh dear god, she's thinking about the _taste_ again; how do you stay best friends with someone when you know how they taste, when you know what they sound like when they're turned on, when you know how each stroke or flick of a tongue makes them react, or when you know what it feels like to have their heels dig into your back?

"It was..." Lexa tries to explain, "I don't know, we didn't even _kiss_. It was just...a momentary lapse in our sanity."

Raven hums, and then she's silent, and Lexa's silent, and the morning is silent, and it all just reminds Lexa of the silence of the apartment after the speakers blew out last night. Everyone heard and now everyone _knows_ , and Christ, half their friends were there, and...

... _Wells_.

If Clarke doesn't tell him, it's almost certain he'll find out anyway. Jasper was there. Monty was there. Murphy was there. Miller was there. One of them is bound to spill the beans.

Raven nudges Lexa's shoulder to get her attention. "Have you heard anything from her?"

There's not a sigh big enough to express her exasperation. "Clarke won't answer my calls. I think she's avoiding me," and Lexa doesn't blame her in the slightest.

She'd ignore herself if she could.

"Well, keep calling," Raven advises, "This is on both of you so don't try and take all of the heat, okay?"

With that, Raven leaves Lexa to think, which is like, the last thing she wants to do.

Instead, she takes another sip of water, rinses, and spits.

//

Two weeks go by.

She hears nothing back from Clarke...

...until she does: _can i come over later? we need to talk_

She'd be annoyed if she wasn't so relieved, because _talking_ , that's all Lexa's been trying to do for two weeks now, but all of her text messages have gone ignored and all of her calls have been sent straight to voicemail.

Lexa doesn't play games, especially with her friends, but she waits a few hours to text back anyway, even though she knows what her answer will be.

It's yes.

It's always yes, and so she gets out her phone five hours later and types out, _sure_

Lexa stares at it. It looks so careless.

She backspaces and then types out, _of course_

No, no, no. Now she sounds desperate.

Okay, how about, _come by anytime, I'll be here_

It's hopeless, really, and she's thinking too much into it, so Lexa just says fuck it and sends _, okay_

It only takes a second for Clarke to start texting back. Lexa's heart hasn't beat this fast and this hard since that night two weeks ago.

_I'll be by around 7_

Lexa leans over the counter and holds her phone at a distance. She wants to tell Clarke that she misses her, that she's sorry all of this has thrown a wrench in their friendship, that it'll probably be awkward now, and that they'll never be able to talk about their sex lives with each other ever again without being reminded of the time Clarke challenged Lexa into eating her out on Raven's bed.

But there's nothing more she can say, and so she types out, _okay_ , and then decides to do some homework until later.

Until seven.

//

Clarke knocked on her door ten minutes ago, but not one word about what happened has yet been spoken.

Lexa's hands were sweaty when she turned the doorknob to let Clarke in. Clarke had smiled and nodded as Lexa offered her something to drink to fill the weird silence, and here they are now; Lexa on one side of the couch, and Clarke on the other.

"So," Clarke starts, her smile tight, "How's it been?"

"Good, good. You?"

Clarke only nods.

Lexa folds and then unfolds her hands. She doesn't know what to do with them, and so she finally just says, "Clarke, about that night..."

"Yeah, about that...I think we should just—" Clarke cuts herself off and messes with her sleeve. She won't make eye contact— _hasn't_ made eye contact since she walked through the threshold of the apartment, and it's really starting to rub Lexa the wrong way.

"Should just what?" Lexa prompts, when Clarke fails to finish her train of thought.  

Clarke looks down at her lap and mumbles something under her breath that Lexa would need microscopic hearing to understand. She lifts a brow, and so Clarke clears her throat and tries again, "I think we should just move on...forget it ever happened."

Okay, _sure_ —that may be easy for _Clarke_ , but it's kind of impossible for Lexa considering she still has the memory of that _taste_ on her tongue.

Lexa doesn't want to get angry; she's not that person, she doesn't usually lose her cool, especially around Clarke, because she's _Clarke_ ; they just get each other, they get everything about each other...

...except _this_ , apparently.

Lexa opens and closes her mouth, and then she opens it again to say, "But I thought you wanted to talk? We can't just move on without talking about it first because then it'll always be this _thing_ we never talked about that all of our friends _are_ talking about, and the awkwardness with never end, but you know what _will_ end? Our friendship will end when—"

" _Lexa_ ," Clarke stops her.

She doesn't say it loudly, or forcefully, but Lexa pauses anyway and stares in shock, because it was said so...so helplessly, so _drained_.

They sit in a loaded silence, and Lexa watches Clarke breathe, watches her chest rise and fall as she prepares to say something, _anything_...

"Lexa, I've never...that was my first orgasm, that night," Clarke admits, and Lexa's mouth goes dry; she almost chokes on air, but Clarke looks so small and nervous, and Lexa doesn't want to make her feel even more uncomfortable by gagging on her own tongue, so she bites it instead and maybe even breaks the skin a little.

She swears she tastes blood.

But how—...she didn't even know Clarke got off, and now Lexa has to think back and really wonder _how_ _long_ they were even in Raven's room before that mortifying interruption.

Lexa's cheeks feel hot. "But you said...that time you were with Finn, freshmen year—"

"I lied," Clarke mumbles. "I...thought there was something wrong with me, but you're the only one who's ever—I'm sorry, this is probably so weird to hear from me."

Yeah. Yeah, it is, but Lexa would be lying if she said it didn't make her feel at least a _little_ accomplished—what can she say, she's cocky, okay?—but it also kind of turns her on; the fact that Clarke orgasmed with her and no one else, which yes, sucks a lot, but, but, "I...I don't know what to say, Clarke."

Clarke nods stiffly, as if she expected as much. Her hands are doing this weird thing, going back and forth from her pockets to her hair, and then she just crosses her arms, more like a protective stance than the aloof vibe she's probably trying to give off.

Lexa watches her closely, eyes the body that she was so close to, that she practically worshipped not even a month ago, the body she got the privilege to touch and feel and—

"Wells and I broke up," Clarke says, interrupting Lexa's...provoking thoughts. "I told him what happened, and there's no hard feelings, not really; I think he's just embarrassed because of—well, all of his friends were there, and so..."

There's really no need to explain why'd that hurt someone's feelings—not to mention their pride. Lexa wishes she had the foresight to think of Wells in that moment two weeks ago; she wishes she could have been clear-headed enough to recognize how Wells would feel after learning that his girlfriend had sex with her best friend only a few feet away from the rest of all his friends.

Forget rude, it was just plain disrespectful, and the self-deprecating look on Clarke's face clearly expresses that she feels the same way about it—perhaps even worse.

But Lexa has a short attention span, so despite all of that, her mind can't help but go back to, _I helped Clarke reach her first orgasm_. It's...weird to think about, considering Clarke's her friend, but just— _wow_.

"Clarke, I can't imagine how you must have felt, thinking there was something wrong with you, because of..." Lexa waves her hand around, "I'm just—if you ever need me to...if there's _ever_ a time when you want to feel...I mean, I can always— _God_ , why is this so hard to say?"

Clarke actually smiles; she looks amused. "Lexa, are you...offering to have sex with me to help me get off?"

Well, when it's put like that, it sounds kind of... _weird_.

Lexa can only shrug, because yeah—she _was_ offering, but now she really wants to take it back...depending on Clarke's response.

Clarke has this look on her face; her brows are knitted, eyes inquisitive, lips pursed in thought. She actually looks like she's considering it, but then, "That's really...sweet of you, Lex, but I'm gonna have to pass. You're not a sex toy. Plus, it'd be a little too weird. Especially now that we're sober and everything."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Lexa agrees, nodding, " _Way_ too weird. As if it wasn't weird enough the first time."

They both laugh, and Lexa doesn't think she's ever had a conversation more awkward than this.

Clarke's cheeks are the pinkest Lexa's ever seen them, and she's biting her lip again, the same way she did _that night_.

Lexa stares for a little longer than she'd like to admit, but Clarke doesn't catch her, so maybe it's not too big of a deal.

"So are we okay?" Clarke asks, allowing a hesitant smile to curve at her lips.

Lexa smiles too. It doesn't feel like it usually feels, but—"We're okay, Clarke," she says anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days pass and things seem to go back to normal. Emphasis on _seem_.

Clarke is talking to her again, and they do their regular thing where they get lunch after class, study together in the library, and meet up with their friends—while simultaneously trying to forget that everyone knows what happened between them—but then Friday night rolls around, and... _well_.

Raven's out with Octavia and Lincoln, because she apparently loves being a third wheel, and Lexa's on the couch in her sweats watching Netflix when her phone vibrates—it's a text from **_X Clarke(s) the spot_** that reads: _heyy what are you up to tonight?_

She eats popcorn out of her left hand and texts back with the other: _oh_ _you know, the usual_ _Friday night_ _of Netflix and chill...minus the chill_

At least an hour goes by without a word from Clarke, and Lexa's about halfway through the seventh episode of _The_ _Walking Dead_ when her phone vibrates again.

_so possibly embarrassing question..._

That's the first text, and then Clarke's typing again.

What pops up next, along with a flushed-face emoji, is this: _would you be opposed to adding the chill?_

As soon as Lexa reads the text, her stomach does this weird thing; it like, clenches in on itself, and she has to tell herself to breathe or else it won't happen at all.

She wonders if it would be lame to ask for clarification, because she _knows_ what Clarke's referring to, but what if she doesn't? What if Clarke just wants to come over, watch Netflix, and _actually_ chill?

Her eyes are closed when she presses send, mostly because she can't believe what she just typed out: _as in the chill I mentioned a few days ago?_

Clarke's response is instant: _yeah...that chill_

She's never seen the word chill written out so many times in text form, and especially not in reference to what she's pretty damn certain they're both talking about. If chill is code for sex, then they're on the same page—if it's not, this'll make for a very confusing evening.

_of course I'm not opposed Clarke, I'm the one who offered :)_

She must have contemplated the smiley face for a good five minutes on and off; she even considered a winky face, but they're not on that level—they'll _never_ be on that level, because they're just friends, and Lexa is just...helping a friend in need.

That smiley face is for comfort, not for anything suggestive, not in the slightest—though for a while it feels like Lexa's trying to convince herself of this—but then her phone vibrates with a text that reads: _I'll be right over_

And oh God, it's actually happening; Clarke's coming over and they're going to—

Lexa jumps up from off the couch, knocks over her bowl of popcorn, and then rushes into the bathroom to take a shower.

If she's going to do this, she's going to be fresh.

//

"Hey."

"Hi."

"Come in."

Lexa closes the door behind Clarke, and then turns around to find her setting down her wallet and keys on the coffee table; she makes herself at home as she always does, and Lexa's a little thrown that Clarke doesn't seem as nervous as Lexa feels.

She doesn't know how to do this— _initiate_. Well, she does, but not in this kind of situation, and definitely not with _Clarke_.

Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she's wearing an NYU pullover with adidas sweatpants, and it's just so casual and relaxed that Lexa's heart rate begins to slow down a little.

"So I was thinking we could just—"

"—wanna go to the bedroom?"

And _of course_ they'd pick the exact same time to start talking, and Clarke laughs, and Lexa tries not to blush too hard as she allows herself to laugh too, though she's pretty sure it sounds more like an uncomfortable cough.

Clarke's question was the latter, and she looks to be waiting for a response, so Lexa nods and says, "Um—yeah, okay."

Her heart feels like it's about to hammer out of her chest it's beating so damn hard.

She leads Clarke past Raven's room—Lexa's pretty sure she catches Clarke peeking in as they walk by—down the hallway, and then into her own room, which Clarke has been in about a million times before, but suddenly, to Lexa, at least, it feels like the first time—mostly because Clarke's always called it _Lexa's room_ , never _the bedroom_.

But damn, as soon as Lexa steps inside, she kind of wishes she would've straightened up a little instead of taking a fifteen minute shower.

"So what were you thinking?"

"Hm?"

Clarke crosses the room and then sits down on Lexa's bed. "Before...you said—"

"Oh, um—we can do whatever you're comfortable with, it's fine."

She almost can't believe they're talking about _sex_. This is the girl who playfully flicks eye boogers at her in the library when they're trying to study, the girl who has sent her billions of unflattering and blackmail-worthy selfies of herself on Snapchat, the girl who she laughs until she cries with when nothing's even funny, the girl who usually gives her advice on other girls, and now Lexa will be using that advice on _Clarke_.

"Okay, so—you're fine with us..." Clarke settles for raising a hand and then wiggling her fingers. She then lets out a breathy laugh and glances down at her lap, as if she can't believe this is actually happening.

It's obvious she's embarrassed, but Lexa feels the same way _—tenfold_.

"I'm fine with that," Lexa says, her voice a little scruffy. "How about...more of what we did the night of the party?"

Clarke glances up at that and then nods a little more enthusiastically than she probably initially intended. Her face is so pink, and Lexa can't help but smile shakily at how... _different_ it is to see her friend so flustered by this conversation.

Lexa can only imagine what _she_ looks like; probably a hot, sweaty mess. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she stuffs them into her pockets, rocks back on her heels, and then mumbles, "Uh, so, do you think we can..." After a moment, her words fade into nothing, and Clarke raises a brow.

"...Lex?" she prompts.

"Last time, we didn't—" Lexa cuts herself off and awkwardly scratches at the back of her neck. "Can we kiss this time?"

It's such a stupid question, but she didn't want to just _assume_ ; Lexa's seen _Pretty Woman_ , and like, she's not calling herself or Clarke a hooker or anything, but kissing can be considered really personal for some people, and the last thing she wants to do is cross any boundaries tonight.

But Clarke just smirks and then says, "I want to kiss if you want to," and _of course_ Lexa wants to kiss; she wanted to kiss two weeks ago, but then _other things_ got in the way that pleasantly distracted her away from all of Clarke's upper regions.

"I want to," Lexa says, and then Clarke licks her lips, and it's just— _mmm_.

"One more thing," Clarke adds, "We should probably just keep this between us. I just—I don't think it's necessary for all of our friends to know about our—about this... _arrangement_ , you know?"

Something feels weird about that word, and Lexa briefly wonders what Clarke was going to say before she shifted gears, but then Clarke takes out her scrunchy, allowing her blonde hair to fall down to her shoulders, and Lexa forgets all about that stupid word, whatever it was.

"Lights," Lexa remembers, suddenly, "...on or off?"

Clarke glances around and then looks back at Lexa to say, "On."

Her whole body is thrumming in time with her heartbeat, and she doesn't even realize she's staring until Clarke calls out her name to get her attention.

"Are you sure you're up for this, Lex? We don't have to, you know," Clarke says, shrugging a shoulder. "I saw you were watching _The_ _Walking Dead_ if you just wanna—"

"No, I want to—I do, I'm just kinda..."

"Nervous?" Clarke mumbles, looking up shyly, and then waits for Lexa's nod. "Yeah, me too."

"So if we're both nervous, maybe the nerves will cancel each other out?"

Clarke cracks a smile at that. "I appreciate the logic, nerd," she says, and the light teasing brings back a familiar quality that is just so _Clarke and Lexa_ , and it actually helps in calming Lexa's nerves—that little reminder of who they are outside of this room, who they are to each other. Clarke's been calling her a nerd since the moment they met, and that's the Clarke that Lexa sees when the other girl pats the space beside her and says, "C'mere, sit down."

Lexa slowly approaches and then sits with her body turned toward Clarke, and it's _strange_ —strange that she's kissed Clarke's lips but hasn't kissed Clarke's _lips_ yet.

She's staring at them now, and she's pretty sure Clarke is staring at hers; they're both smiling timidly, which is unexpected—Lexa didn't really anticipate so much...lightness?—but it's probably just the nerves, the butterflies fluttering, the anticipation bubbling up from the high expectations brought on by an admittedly hot night two weeks ago.

Clarke is the first to lean in; their noses touch, and Lexa allows her eyes to close as she tips her head forward until their lips meet. It all feels so mechanical and maneuvered—and Lexa worries, briefly, that maybe this won't work—but then, after the initial hesitation of a new touch wears off, they settle into it, and it's kind of... _nice_.

The kiss is gentle at first, slow and timid, and they mostly keep their hands to themselves, but then Clarke rests a hand on Lexa's knee, and the kiss deepens, grows equally in passion and heat. That same hand only hesitates for a split second before traveling up Lexa's thigh and resting at her hip, and Clarke pulls their bodies closer together until they're basically chest to chest.

Lexa breathes Clarke in—she smells like fresh linens, spring rain, and something else that is specifically _Clarke_. Her hand wavers at the hem of Clarke's pullover until she just says fuck it and goes for it, sliding her fingers underneath and sighing through her nose when she touches hot, smooth skin.

Lexa breaks the kiss to ask, "Is this okay?"

Clarke nods and whispers, "More than okay," and then pulls her back over.

Clarke kisses with a ferocity that Lexa never would have expected from her; she nips and licks and tugs, swelling up Lexa's lips even more than usual, and Lexa starts to get the feeling that maybe that's the point.

"I guess your lips aren't just nice to look at," Clarke breathes, wrapping a hand in Lexa's hair as Lexa leaves Clarke's lips to trail open-mouthed kisses along the line of Clarke's jaw and then down her neck.

Her entire body feels hot, wound up and ready to go, and she relishes in the hum that vibrates up from Clarke's throat against her lips as she nibbles on Clarke's collarbone and reaches her hand higher up Clarke's sweatshirt until it's just plain in the way.

Clearly on the same page, Clarke breaks away from her to tug the offending layer off, and—there's no shirt underneath, just a black, lacy bra, and Lexa can't help but wonder if Clarke put it on for her.

She probably didn't, but it's a nice thought anyway.

Clarke throws her pullover to the side, and it lands somewhere near the windowsill, but instead of falling back into their earlier rhythm, Clarke only stares at Lexa expectantly until... _oh_ —seems they're stripping themselves tonight.

Reaching down, Lexa rolls up her shirt and then pulls it over her head before realizing that she never put a bra back on after her quick shower.

Clarke freezes, and—okay, yeah, she was probably expecting a bra and not what she's currently seeing, and Lexa burns all the way down to her toes, suddenly overcome with the urge to cover herself, but then Clarke's eyes lower, and she hesitantly reaches forward to...

...the feeling is—honestly, she can't even describe it, Clarke's fingertips trailing over her sensitive flesh, so timid and unsure, and Lexa can only peer down and watch with heavy lids and a parted mouth.

Her breaths are coming out in short, uneven spurts as Clarke slides her fingers down Lexa's stomach until she's skimming the hem of Lexa's sweatpants, curling her fingers inside and then tugging, and Lexa's no idiot; she takes the hint and leans over, carefully resting Clarke back against her mattress, and then allows Clarke to slide her sweatpants down her legs until they're bundled up at her ankles. She clumsily kicks them off and then settles down on top of Clarke.

"We still okay?"

It's Clarke who asks the question this time, and there's this sly smile on her face; she's trying to put up a confident front, but Lexa can see right through her, she _always_ can, and so Lexa only nods as she sucks in a sharp breath through her nose and then leans forward.

She kisses down Clarke's stomach and then slips Clarke's pants off, taking her underwear with them, and maybe Clarke cracks a joke about not wasting anytime, but Lexa feels like she's underwater and can barely hear anything besides her own heartbeat slamming against her eardrums.

There's a hand in Lexa's hair again, but this time it's asking her to come back up. Clarke sits up an inch to drag her own bra straps down, and Lexa helps by snapping open the clasp in the back.

The last material Clarke's wearing falls away, and now she's just— _Clarke_ ; Lexa wants to take her in, every dip, every curve, every scar, every beauty mark, every patch of skin, but she doesn't want to make Clarke feel uncomfortable with her staring.

This is the first time they've seen each other this bare, the first time they're allowing this exploration, and now Lexa's a little surprised at herself for never even contemplating what this would be like, how it would feel to have Clarke underneath her, willing and ready, and her mouth goes dry at not just the thought but at the very real reality laying right before her.

Lexa shivers, but it's not even cold, and Clarke's quick to take notice. She hesitates, and then cups Lexa's cheek in her hand. "Lexa, Lexa," Clarke says, holding Lexa still, and Lexa finally pauses when she sees nothing but blue. "Lex, promise me something, okay?"

"Uh-huh," she nods, still a little distracted by _everything_ , "What is it?"

"Our friendship comes first," Clarke says, and Lexa almost makes a joke about how she'd rather Clarke come first, but then thinks better of it when she sees the serious expression on Clarke's face. "I just mean—if this gets in the way and starts to impede on our friendship, we have to promise to stop no matter how much we don't want to."

Lexa looks down at Clarke and nods again. "Of course, Clarke," she says, poking Clarke in the cheek to gain back some of the levity lost, and Clarke smiles, and suddenly it's—her best friend again. "You don't have to worry, okay?" she reassures, "Our friendship will _always_ come first."

Maybe they should've gotten that in writing, but the last thing Lexa's thinking about right now is pen and paper, and she'd assume the same for Clarke when she murmurs, "Also...Lex?"

"Yeah?" she asks, but Clarke only raises her brows before lowering her eyes to Lexa's last scrap of clothing, and—alright...her turn.

Fingers tickle up Lexa's shoulders to help keep her steady as she shifts on top of Clarke and balances on one arm before slowly pulling down her underwear.

And when they finally meet, it's... _fuck_ —Lexa suddenly feels overwhelmed by it all, and Clarke sighs and then her breathing falters when Lexa begins to move her hips. It's give and take at this point as a hand wraps around the back of her neck, tangles in her hair, and then pulls her down for a kiss that's sweeter than she expected.

They take it slow, slower than they were moving before, and maybe this means the nerves are going away, maybe this means they're becoming more comfortable with each other, more confident in what they're doing, in this _thing_ , and so Lexa takes a chance; she runs her fingers down Clarke's stomach, strokes the tuft of hair she finds, and then enters her with one finger, just to test the waters, and then a second finger when Clarke says, " _Another_."

Clarke makes this noise against Lexa's lips that she can't really describe—it's an _amazing_ sound though—and Clarke doesn't waste anytime before pushing her tongue past Lexa's lips and deepening the kiss as she begins to move her hips as well.

Lexa takes it as a sign to keep going; it's all an exploration—while she might kind of know what Clarke likes, this is whole new territory. They've touched each other's hair and have held each other's hands, they've kissed each other on the cheek and have even been close enough to kiss on the lips while applying each other's make up, but they've never touched each other like _this_ before.

Lexa would have never imagined they'd ever be touching each other like this, but now that they _are_...she can't ever imagine going back.

//

"You don't have to leave, Clarke," Lexa whispers, leaning up on her elbows as she watches Clarke tiptoe around the room and slowly redress. "You can stay over, you know."

"No, I should probably go. Harper's coming over my place later to work on a project, and it's already..." She swivels around to check the time on Lexa's alarm clock, " _Shit_ —quarter to four. I'll be lucky to get four hours of sleep, at the most."

"Alright," Lexa says, oddly disappointed; she hopes it doesn't show in her voice, and evidently it doesn't if Clarke's lack of reaction is anything to go by. "Get home safe. And tell Harper I said hi."

Admittedly, she hasn't seen many of her friends besides Raven and Octavia since that night. It's not that she's been avoiding them, it's just—the last thing she wants to do is go hang out with Lincoln and find out Wells is with him, or eat lunch with Jasper in the dining hall and run into Wells there.

Okay, so _sue_ her; she's avoiding her best friend's ex who knows she fucked his girlfriend and, unknown to him, is still fucking. _Sue_ her. Anyone else would do the same thing, okay?

Once Clarke's all clothed and ready to go, she leans down over Lexa, and Lexa's expecting a kiss on the lips, but Clarke easily bypasses them for a swift kiss on the cheek, and it's—let's just say reality is starting to kick in again, and it kind of...unexpectedly... _hurts_.

"Thanks, nerd," Clarke says, and then pauses in the doorway. "For, you know, _everything_."

There's a quick smile and a wink, but Lexa doesn't even get a chance to say 'you're welcome' before Clarke's long gone.

Well.

So much for promises.


	4. Chapter 4

Raven's waiting for her in the kitchen the next morning, and she's looking at Lexa oddly, so Lexa looks away, but Raven is nothing if not nosy, so she says, "I thought you were staying in last night."

There's a pause—she's not entirely sure where Raven's going with this. "I...did."

"Ah," Raven singsongs, leaning on her elbows across the counter, "so whoever did the walk of shame out of your room early this morning was someone you've been with before..."

Well, that's not an entirely false presumption.

"Um—"

"Spill, Lex."

"It was..." She says the first name that pops into her head, "Costia."

Raven almost chokes on a piece of toast. "No way— _your ex_ , Costia?"

"You know any others?"

Her attitude sucks, and she's not entirely sure why. She had amazing sex last night, it's a beautiful spring morning, and Raven made her breakfast, but—...she woke up alone, and that always sucks after spending the majority of the night with someone underneath you. Suddenly, it feels like Clarke just got what she needed and left, which— _yes_ , was the deal, but...at least stay for coffee or something.

"Relax, Lex." Raven raises her hands—along with a butterknife—in surrender. "I just didn't know you guys still spoke, never mind slept together. Sounds like you had a good night though."

Lexa shrugs, because no, it was _better_ than good, but she's not going to tell Raven that. "It's just a casual thing."

"Yeah, you seem to be pretty good at _casual_ lately."

Lexa senses judgement in her tone, and she'd be mad about it if she didn't know why—it all goes back to that night with Clarke. Wells is Raven's friend too, so it's no doubt she probably heard about the breakup by now. Nothing stays a secret for long between all of them, so Lexa presumes it's only a matter of time before she and Clarke are found out as well.

What they're doing—it's risky, not only because of their group of friends, but because of _them_. Clarke had Lexa make that promise for a reason, Lexa suspects, and of course she'll follow through with it—their friendship will always _always_ come first, but what happens when it doesn't?

Clarke said there were no hard feelings between herself and Wells, but that's Clarke's side of the story. None of their friends have chosen sides in the breakup— _not yet,_ anyway—but it'll only take the discovery of this arrangement for rumors to start spreading that they'd been sleeping together the entire time Clarke and Wells were a couple, and it's that kind of false information that ruin friendships.

Lexa doesn't say anything—she doesn't have to, and she doesn't want to—and Raven doesn't push any further. She only slides a plate of toast and eggs across the counter, and then, "Coffee?"

"Black, please."

//

Most would think that making love to your best friend so that she can have an orgasm would be weird, that it'd be filled with awkward instances and shy discoveries, and that every time you see each other outside of the bedroom, all you'd be able to think about is the fact you saw each other naked, the fact they had their hands where only a select group of people have ever touched you, the fact you know what they look like when they finally let go and then hold onto you for dear life as they fall over that edge.  

Well, if you think that, you're absolutely correct. It _is_ awkward, almost every time, and it _is_ weird. It _does_ leave her feeling strange sometimes, and she _does_ see Clarke differently now. Not a good different or a bad different, just— _different_.

She knows things now that she never knew before, that she never thought she'd ever know. She knows that Clarke can be a goof in bed, giggling whenever something tickles or feels funny, and she knows that Clarke's loudest when Lexa's between her thighs, pleasuring her the way she did their first time together.

But now she also knows Clarke's habits, her little quirks, and even her biggest insecurities—and not only when it comes to sex. Clarke's self-conscious of her stretch marks, and she always gets quiet and shy whenever Lexa kisses them and tells her that they're perfect. She likes to put her bra on right after, like—it's the first thing she goes looking for, even before her underwear.

And the girl can bite—she _loves_ to bite—anything she can get her teeth on; lips, hips, inner thighs, ears, and even fingers. It's obviously a turn on for her, so even though Lexa could honestly use a little less teeth marks on her neck, she allows it anyway, because—well, it's a turn on for her as well, yet even more so the next morning when Lexa's looking at those marks in her mirror with the hot reminder of how they got there.

If any of their friends have noticed the way they're touchier towards each other now, or that Clarke's shameless flirting with Lexa has increased over the last couple of weeks, no one has said a word about it—not to them, at least.

Sometimes though, when they're all hanging out at a bar over the weekend, and Clarke's sitting with her body turned toward Lexa a little more than usual, her hand somewhere on Lexa's body for no apparent reason, Lexa can almost feel Octavia's eyes drilling through the side of her head. Whether or not she knows is still yet to be determined, and because Clarke doesn't notice, Lexa makes sure to tell her when they finally escape from the table to use the bathroom.

"I think you're being paranoid," Clarke tells her, coming up from behind Lexa at the sink as she washes her hands. "You know our friends, Lex. If any one of them even suspected, it'd be in _The New York Times_ by morning."

Okay, so that's definitely true; their friends can't keep a secret to save their lives, and so Lexa begins to worry less, but not enough to forget about the knowing look on Octavia's face when Clarke made it super obvious that she's getting sex on the regular but refused to say who it is she's getting it from.

The only pair of eyes that went to Lexa at that statement were Octavia's—no one else seemed to catch on, either because of the intoxication factor or just the blatant oblivion on their parts.

Clarke rests her chin on Lexa's shoulder and looks at her through the mirror with a smirk that Lexa can now read better than her economics textbook. "We can't, Clarke," she whispers to Clarke's reflection, mindful of the person who's quietly peeing in the stall behind them. "Not here."

Clarke presses her lips to Lexa's shoulder and then mumbles something against the fabric of her leather jacket that Lexa can't quite make out the first time, and so after an eyebrow raise, Clarke pulls her mouth away to say, "Why not?"

 _Hmm_ —why not? There's only about a million reasons why not, but Lexa settles for the most obvious one. "Our friends are right outside," she reasons, turning off the sink, and this almost feels like deja vu, except the sober version. "Any one of them can walk in at any moment."

Clarke's smirk falters for a second, but then it's right back in place, and she nods before gently kissing the back of Lexa's neck and then exiting the bathroom.

Lexa follows Clarke's departure through the reflection of the mirror, and then she faces herself, shifting sideways to glance at her shoulder and, just as she suspected, _lipstick_.

She grabs a napkin, wets the edge, and then wipes the back of her neck.

 _Red_.

For someone who wants to keep this a secret between them, Clarke's really doing all she can to make sure everyone at the bar tonight knows that Lexa is taken—by whom, it's a mystery to everyone except them, but it's only a matter of time before someone catches on, especially considering they're not exactly being the most stealth.

She doesn't know what to make of Clarke's recent behavior, or whether she should even bother to make anything of it at all.

One thing is for certain though; a claim has been staked on her, and Lexa's not so sure she minds.

//

The week is long, and finals are coming up soon, which always sucks, but it's a means to an end, and so she cracks open her notes even though she'd rather be watching _The Walking Dead_ on Netflix.

Three pages—that's all she gets through before her phone is vibrating against the couch and the caller ID **_X Clarke(s) the spot_** is highlighting her screen.

"Talk to me."

"Saying that doesn't make you sound cool, Lex," Clarke answers with a laugh.

"Jasper would say otherwise."

"Jasper is almost as big a nerd as you, so your point is mute."

"You know what else is mute?" Pause for dramatic effect. "Your voice after I hang up on you."

"Wait, _Lexaaaa_ ," Clarke whines, for a very long time, and so Lexa puts her phone on speaker, sets it down on the coffee table, and then keeps on reading until Clarke runs out of breath and says, "Are you still there?"

"No, I hung up."

There's a scoff, probably to express the fact that Clarke knows Lexa would never hang up on her, and then she asks, "What are you doing?"

This conversation is going somewhere, Lexa can _feel_ it, but she doesn't say so. She doesn't play games—she's a cut to the chase kind of girl—but Clarke does, and so Lexa allows it this one time and says, "Studying."

"Nerd."

Lexa rolls her eyes. "I'm pretty certain we already established that."

"You know what you should do, rather than study?"

"What's that?"

"Me."

 _Alright_ —straight to the point. "Huh?"

"I was making a joke, Lex," Clarke sighs, and it's actually quite amusing, this playing dumb thing. "Get it...do me?"

"So," Lexa chuckles, tapping her pen against the coffee table, "Are you a comedian now, or do you actually want to come over?"

"What if I told you I'm a comedian?"

"Then I'd tell you to stick to your day job."

"Be over in fifteen, nerd."

"Don't rush for my sake."

"You _wish_."

Lexa hangs up and the first thing she looks at are her fingernails. They could really use a trim.

//

There are worst things in life than having to catch up on homework because you spent that time having mind-blowing sex; Lexa thinks so, at least.

Finals are this week, and Lexa doesn't think she's ever seen the library so packed. She's barely able to get a table by herself, but thankfully she finds one all the way in the back behind the last shelf of books, so it's really a wonder how the last person she wanted to see finds her back there.

"Lexa?"

She peeks up from her macroeconomics textbook and comes face-to-face with Wells Jaha as he takes a seat across the table from her. He looks—well, he looks the same as usual, which is...not entirely odd, but odd enough.

Lexa had been thinking over what it'd be like to run into him again after the breakup, and for some reason, she had expected him to look like the cliché version of a guy who'd just had his heart broken.

Not many of their friends have really spoken about Wells to Lexa after everything that happened at that party, so it's that facet in particular that made her think he hasn't been coping too well, but by the looks of things—Wells actually looks great, while Lexa is the one sitting at the table, tired as shit and behind on work.

"It's been a while," Wells says as he starts unloading his backpack, taking out scribbled notes and a few soft-covered books.

"It has," Lexa agrees, anxiously clicking her pen.

Wells doesn't say any more after that and gets right to work, and although Lexa feels a little more than uncomfortable, she holds her ground, knowing that leaving because of Wells' presence is like, super childish, especially considering that she's the one who was in the wrong.

She's on page fifteen of her notes when she realizes she's the worst person ever; Wells knows, and Lexa knows that he knows, and all of their friends know, so the least Lexa can do is offer an apology for how bad she fucked up and still regrets her actions, even despite the amazing sex that came out of it.

"Look, Wells," she begins, peeking up from the table, "I'm really sorry about what—"

"No, no, _I'm_ sorry," Wells says, waving her off, and Lexa begins to feel like an even worse person—because how nice can you be to take the blame for something that's not even your fault?—but then Wells keeps talking and, "Clarke is—well, she's the kind of person who...how do I say this without sounding mean?"

Lexa lifts a brow, suddenly defensive. "Maybe you shouldn't say it at all then."

"She's an awesome friend, don't get me wrong," Wells continues, apparently unable to take advice, "But whoever she touches, she always seems to hurt. It's not done intentionally, but it always—"

" _Wells_ ," she interrupts, a little louder than initially intended. A few people glance their way, and even Wells looks stricken, which doesn't really surprise Lexa much—people have told her in the past that she has somewhat of a _commanding_ voice when she's irritated. "I really think you should stop talking."

Maybe she's annoyed with Wells, or maybe she's projecting her own insecurities that mirror everything Wells is saying, but suddenly all Lexa can think about is, Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? _Where's Clarke?_

The first moment that came out of being with Clarke ended with Lexa puking her guts out as Raven—not Clarke—rubbed her back and made sure her hair didn't get nasty bits of vomit in it. It could be a trend, or it could just be a coincidence. It could be stupid luck, or it could all just be in her head.

But then— _Wells_. If it was only in her head, Wells wouldn't be sitting here saying, "Anyway, there's no hard feelings, between you and I—not even between Clarke and I." He shrugs a shoulder, probably trying to look passive about it all, but Lexa can see the underlying sadness in his expression, the obvious hurt that he's trying so hard to hide. "Hell, we're meeting up for lunch in about an hour, so I'll tell her I saw you. She'll be happy we're all getting along again."

Lexa's smile feels so plastic it actually hurts. Of course she's happy for Wells—that he's on good terms with his ex and everything—but at the same time, Lexa's a little wary about her _own_ relationship with Wells' ex.

//

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Why'd you leave?"

Clarke gives Lexa a look as she tucks her white button-up shirt back into her black slacks. She's on her way to work, excuse number nine for why she's bolting literally right after, and Lexa can only watch from where she's still wrapped up in her sheets on the bed.

"I told you, I was already running ten minutes late for my lecture," Clarke sighs, pausing in front of the mirror to make her sex hair look a little less...sexy—but from Lexa's point of view, that's just simply impossible.

"No, not last time," Lexa mumbles, shifting onto her side. "The night of the party, you ran out and left me to deal with everything that had happened, and I don't know—it's dumb, but I feel like you kind of...abandoned me."

Okay, so, maybe she's being a little dramatic, but it's how she felt, especially in the incredibly drunken state she had been in, and Clarke bolting like that, as she's doing now, hurt like hell; if anything, a best friend is supposed to stick around, even through the most mortifying experiences, but—Clarke didn't.

There's a lot she still doesn't remember about that night, but one thing remains clear—as she leaned over the toilet and unloaded the toxic contents of her stomach, all she could do was peer up at Raven and continuously ask her the same question over and over, Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? _Where's Clarke?_

"I'm sorry, Lex," Clarke says, but she doesn't answer the question. "I was just—I'm really sorry."

Lexa's not going to pry; it's not her style, and it's also none of her business why Clarke left the way she did, but there is one more burning question on her mind.

"Where'd you go?" she asks, after a moment.

"Octavia helped me catch a cab," Clarke tells her, walking back towards the bed, towards Lexa, "and then I went to Wells' place."

That's...not entirely surprising, but it's also not what Lexa was expecting. After what happened, Clarke was still drunk, and she probably felt guilty, so she went to the person she knew she could always get comfort from, but Lexa's not going to lie and say it doesn't hurt; the fact Clarke left her—the girl she cheated _with_ , her best friend—to see the guy she just cheated _on_ , her boyfriend.

Lexa's never _not_ compared herself to Wells in regard to Clarke's affections. She has. And she continues to. Even now.

She wants to ask more, about what happened, whether Clarke told him right out or waited a few days, but then Clarke's grabbing her keys, kissing Lexa on the forehead, and out the door before Lexa can even begin to open her mouth.

She thinks she's sensing a trend here, but it could just be her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you ever wanna chat about the story, you're always welcome in my inbox: acid-glue234.tumblr.com

Of course Raven would almost find out.

As she said, the walls are paper maché.

Granted, Raven had told Lexa that she was going to the gym, and when Raven goes to the gym, she takes Octavia and Lincoln along with her—they usually make a whole day out of it, and so Lexa told Clarke that they could take their time today, but then the front door slams shut just as Clarke's in the middle of an earth-shattering orgasm, and well—it's probably hard to ignore.

There are three hard knocks, and then, " _Woods_ , you said you couldn't come with us to the gym because you pulled a hamstring, you liar!" They allow nothing but silence, Lexa holding her breath and Clarke hiding underneath the covers, but apparently Raven's not only well-versed in book smarts because then there's a sly chuckle that sounds muffled through the door. "I'm not stupid, I _know_ you're fucking in there, Lexa."

They still don't answer, set on calling Raven's bluff. Lexa crawls under the covers with Clarke and puts a finger to her lips when Clarke looks like she's about to bust out laughing.

"The silent treatment, I see," Raven drawls, "Well, two can play at that game. Or shall I say _three_."

They're all quiet for at least five minutes, and Lexa thinks she's going to suffocate, but Raven must finally grow bored and give up, because the front door slams shut, _finally_.

She and Clarke come up for air, and then Clarke glances over at her with a conflicted look and says, "I think we've been made, Lex. Raven definitely knows."

"Not entirely," Lexa tells her, pulling a strand of hair out of her mouth, "The last person Raven would suspect is you. She probably just thinks it was someone else."

Clarke gives her an odd look at that, eyebrows raised. "Yeah? Like who?"

"Doesn't matter," Lexa assures her, "As long as it's not you, right?"

Clarke only shrugs, and so Lexa smirks and then leans over to press her lips to Clarke's neck, smiling when Clarke giggles and wraps her legs around Lexa's waist as Lexa crawls back on top of Clarke to hopefully finish what they had previously started.

//

Lexa's not the best cook, but she does it anyway because she knows Raven's going to be pissed when she gets in, and so she throws some burgers on the stove, because it's Raven's favorite, but it turns out that not even the succulent smell of ground beef can help tame her roommate's attitude.

As soon as she comes through the door, Raven calls out, "Costia must give you one helluva workout if you skipped the gym with yours truly to be with her."

Lexa's pretty sure her smile is crooked when she attempts one. It's only a matter of time before this lie that Costia's the girl she's been casually sleeping with totally blows up in her face. But until then, "You never know, I might've broken a sweat," she jokes, sliding a plate across the counter to Raven.

Raven may still be mad, but she takes a hearty bite out of the burger anyway. "Are you guys getting serious again?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're with her _all the time_ , Lexa," she exaggerates, and then unnecessarily adds, "Like, almost everyday."

Lexa can only roll her eyes. "Okay, wait—we're not together _that_ much..."

...are they?

Lexa knits her eyebrows and tries to think, but to be honest, she kind of lost count a while ago of how many times they've met up specifically for sex. That doesn't mean they're constantly going at it like rabbits, it's just—they both have a healthy sexual appetite, and now that this arrangement is something that's set in stone, it just makes it that much easier to scratch that itch whenever necessary.

Raven takes another bite, and then mumbles, "Sure, Lexa, whatever helps you sleep at night."

//

The next time they meet up, Clarke starts to leave again, but she has no good excuse this time, Lexa presumes, and so she's forced to tell the truth.

"I just think—" Clarke doesn't finish that statement, bows her head to think, and then shrugs a shoulder. "I mean, the original deal was that we make each other feel good, right?"

"Right," Lexa drawls, waiting for more.

"And since you're the only one who's ever..." Clarke doesn't finish where she was going with that, but Lexa gets the picture. "Our friendship comes first, Lex, and I just don't want there to be any...confusion."

"I don't see what would be confusing," Lexa mumbles, clutching the sheets to her chest as she sits up a little more. "You've slept over before."

"Yeah, but that's different. We hadn't just had sex."

"I think you're making this a bigger deal than it really is."

"It's just—" Clarke flares her nostrils, and it looks like she's having a hard time trying to explain her point. _Good_ , Lexa thinks, because it's a stupid point. "I don't know, Lex," Clarke sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to her, "Just—answer this for me. Why does it matter so much to you if I stay?"

Now Lexa's the one in the hot seat, and Clarke's looking down at her, eyes bright and inquisitive, and so Lexa tries to explain, "You staying isn't really the point, Clarke. It's you rushing off, especially _right after_ —it just gives off a weird vibe."

Clarke nods slowly. "A weird vibe."

"Yeah, like there's something wrong with _this_ , or that—that..."

Lexa doesn't want to tell Clarke that leaving makes her feel used, that it feels like they're only around each other now to fuck and then catch up later. She doesn't want to tell Clarke any of that—even though that's how Clarke throwing on her clothes, kissing Lexa on the forehead, and then rushing off to work or to class actually makes her feel.

She doesn't want to make Clarke feel bad, and she also doesn't want to make this _thing_ between them suddenly awkward, but—she doesn't want to continue feeling this way either.

Clarke looks at her for a long moment, and Lexa presumes she's waiting for her to continue, or to finish what she was saying, but then Clarke offers a soft smile, slowly undresses, and then slides back into bed beside Lexa.

"Don't you dare use this as an excuse to cuddle me, you nerd," Clarke jokes, turning over in bed to face Lexa, and Lexa allows herself to finally smile again—she just can't help it when Clarke's like this, when she's _Clarke_ and just seems to get it without having to be told what's been bothering Lexa so much.

They don't cuddle, they don't touch, they barely even talk, but the assurance that what they're doing, that this _thing_ between them is more than just sex _because_ they're best friends—it's what Lexa's been needing for a while now.

That assurance is Clarke staying. It's Clarke's light snoring beside her. It's Clarke hogging most of the covers, and it's Lexa rolling her eyes at her friend as she tries to pull some of the covers back over to her side of the bed.  

//

Finals are over, thank goodness, and it's summertime, meaning she's finally free, they're all free, but it also means that she needs to use the extra time she currently has to get a job and work like the rest of her friends, but like any college student her age, she neglects all of her responsibilities in favor of playing video games with Lincoln instead.

"I heard you and Wells are cool again."

Lexa curses under her breath when her car crashes into a side rail. "Define _cool_."

"A fairly low temperature," Lincoln says, playfully elbowing Lexa in the arm when she approaches a turn.

Lexa elbows him right back with a dry laugh. "He and Clarke are cool, somehow, but..." She sighs, because the _Wells thing_ is still a touchy subject, one that her and Clarke have barely even spoken about in full, and Lexa doubts they ever will. "It's just—I don't know, I can barely stand to look Wells in the eye anymore without feeling at least a little bit guilty."

"Still?" Lincoln asks, but he doesn't sound too surprised. "I thought all of that happened two months ago."

To everyone else it happened two months ago. To everyone else, it was just one drunken hook-up, but to Clarke and Lexa, it's currently a full-blown secret sex affair. It sounds so much more scandalous than it actually is, but if any of their friends were to find out about it, it'd definitely be considered a scandal in their fairly large friend group.

"Right, well— _still_ ," Lexa mutters, curving her entire body with the car on screen when an unexpected turn appears. "Imagine if you slept with Bellamy and then had to face Gina after what happened."

Lincoln cringes. He presses pause on the game and gives Lexa a look. "Bad example, considering Bellamy is my girlfriend's _brother_."

"Yeah, yeah, you get the point though." Lexa reaches over to press play on Lincoln's controller and they go back to the race; Lexa's ahead by an entire lap, and she wins easily, but Lincoln doesn't sulk about it.

He gets up to put in _The Grounders_ , his favorite combat game, before sitting back down on his beanbag and asking, "So how's Costia?"

Lexa's fingers cramp up when she maneuvers the wrong combo. "What?" she asks, even though she clearly heard what he just asked—it just throws her for a loop how he even knows about that; one, considering it's not even true, and two, the only person she told about Costia was... _Raven_.

Lincoln smacks the controller against his knee when his character on the screen freezes. "Word on the street is you're seeing Costia again," he explains vaguely. "How is she?"

"Oh—um. She's good, yeah," Lexa murmurs, her cheeks growing hot with all the blatant lies coming out of her mouth. "It's just a casual thing."

"I heard."

"Of course you did."

"Just be careful," Lincoln warns, and it's a weird warning, because it's not like Costia hurt her or anything. They were a freshman thing, and it was a long time ago, but they had an amicable breakup, so when Lexa only raises a brow, Lincoln adds, "Juggling is easy for a clown, but you're no clown, Lexa."

She'd press pause to really give this conversation some thought if she wasn't currently kicking Lincoln's ass. "Thank you?"

"I'm just saying," Lincoln continues, crinkling his nose when a stream of black blood splatters across the screen, "Casual can get just as messy as serious, you know. I just don't want to see you—or anyone else, for that matter—get hurt."

"No one's getting hurt, Lincoln," Lexa scoffs, finishing the battle with a double-sword slash combo. "It's sex, not the apocalypse."

//

Raven's on the couch watching a rerun of _Friends_ when Lexa comes in, and it's that episode where everyone finds out that Monica and Chandler are sleeping together—it's just so painfully ironic that Lexa can't even find it within herself to laugh during Phoebe and Rachel's bit of _they don't know that we know that they know._

Raven looks engrossed in the episode, even though she's probably seen it over a hundred times already, but Lexa waits until the commercial anyway to confront her and ask, "You told the guys about Costia?"

Raven at least has the decency to look apologetic, but instead of apologizing for disclosing information that was not even hers to tell, Raven says, "I only told Octavia."

"And Octavia told Lincoln."

Raven only shrugs. "They practically share the same brain, so what difference does it make?"

"How about that it's none of their business?" _Or maybe that it's not even true_ , Lexa finds herself thinking. She hasn't seen Costia since their breakup two years ago, and now there's a rumor—started by Lexa, ironically—going around that they're casually sleeping together.

Nope, that can't be good.

"What is wrong with everyone?" Lexa mutters, suddenly frustrated with the people she calls her friends. "Can nothing stay private anymore?"

"Relax, Lexa," Raven says, eyes wide in surprise, "I'm sorry, okay? I wouldn't have said anything about it if I knew you cared that much."

She's really getting tired of being told to relax. She's getting tired of unwanted advice. And she's getting even more tired of her name in everyone's mouth.

"Yeah, whatever," she sighs, leaving the living area for her bedroom. Exhaustion seeps into her bones, and she doesn't even change out of her street-clothes before falling face first into her pillow.

//

They're at Clarke's place, which is a rarity because she lives in one of those weirdly-set hippy studios with five other people, two of which Lexa knows—Monroe and Gina—and three that Lexa's never seen before, if they even exist.

Gina is milling about somewhere or another— she's not the hovering type when there's company over—and everyone else must be out, because it's oddly quiet. Clarke's place is full of tortured artists, so there's usually always music blasting, or loud singing and spoken-word, but today it's—calm.

They were supposed to hit up this rap concert later tonight, but it got cancelled at the last minute, so now they're just doing nothing, really. Clarke's reading with her feet kicked up on this phallus-shaped sculpture that may or may not be a hot pink penis, and Lexa's scrolling through Twitter, laughing under her breath every now and then at something stupid she sees.

And it's nice—not only because it's quiet and peaceful at Clarke's place for like, the first time ever, but because they're just hanging out, as they used to, with no smirks, no eyebrow raises, no pressure to do anything but just be _Clarke and Lexa,_ and it's pretty much all Lexa's been wanting for weeks now, but then Clarke completely shatters the good vibes when she says, "This probably doesn't need to be said, because _duh_ —but you're...really good."

Lexa glances up from a tweet about Bugs Bunny's radioactive carrot to look at Clarke with a blank expression. "You're going to have to be more specific, Clarke."

A shaky hand flies to blonde hair—Clarke's instinctual reaction to dealing with her nerves—and then she turns away to look at the book in her lap, before saying, "That night, I challenged you, and we..." The _w_ e gets drawn out for about three seconds, and then: utter silence. It would be awkward if she was with anyone other than Clarke, but they're so past that—Lexa thought so, at least. "You're just—you're really good at it, Lex, that's all."

First, it should be stated that this is the first time Clarke's mentioned that night on her own since it happened, and second, Lexa's pretty sure she should be past the stage of blushing around Clarke by now, but her cheeks feel like they're burning anyway as she puts her phone down in her lap and then mumbles a quick, "Um—thanks, Clarke."

She nods, her cheeks pink, and then goes back to her book, but Lexa can't seem to pick her phone back up and retweet that Bugs Bunny post.

Clarke's admission—it came out of nowhere, like most things Clarke says, and at first Lexa plans on letting it go, but she can't help but wonder, "Where did that even come from?"

Clarke peeks back up with a raised brow. "Just, you know—I thought it was important to mention, considering that's what started it all."

 _Bullshit_. "You were thinking about it, weren't you?"

Clarke tries to protest, but Lexa's not stupid; she's sitting right here on the couch next to Clarke. She can see Clarke's clenched thighs—thanks, yoga pants—and she can see the deep flush crawling up Clarke's neck.

Basically, one plus one equals two. And two equals sex.

Clarke licks her lips, which is always the first sign, and then there's that smirk. Right on time. "Fine, you got me," Clarke says, a mixture of playfulness and allure to her voice, "But—why think about it when we can...always just do it, right?"

Her eyes are so blue, and Lexa almost drowns in them, but she forces herself to snap out of it and say, "Gina's still here, Clarke."

"She's in her room," Clarke tells her, waving a hand. "If we put on some music, she'll have no idea we're—"

"No."

Clarke looks taken aback. "But Lex—"

"Do we _always_ have to have sex, Clarke? I thought we could just—hangout like we used to, but now there's always this underlying tension with you, and I—" Lexa takes a deep breath to compose herself when she sees the look of hurt on Clarke's face. "Don't get me wrong, Clarke, I still like this _thing_ that we're doing, but—not all the time, okay?"

"Yeah—okay, of course, sorry," Clarke rushes to say, with this smile that Lexa feels uncomfortable looking at, because _jeez_ , she doesn't know how to handle this, and now she's hurt Clarke's feelings, which is like, the last thing she wanted to do.

Clarke goes back to her book, but she's shaking—Lexa can feel it vibrating through the couch as much as she can see it right in front of her—but Clarke doesn't say a word, so Lexa doesn't say a word either, and it's just so painfully awkward that Lexa realizes she has to do _something_ —and soon—to break the tension.

She scoots over to the other side of the couch, but Clarke doesn't look up from her book. Her eyes are glued to it, and she's not even scanning the pages, so it's obvious she's not reading. Her eyes are glossy, and she's not blinking, and Lexa's stomach sinks in on itself. Dammit. She hates seeing Clarke like this, even more so when it's her fault.

Lexa scoots over some more until they're sharing the same cushion, and then she grabs Clarke's legs and pulls them over until they're draped over Lexa's lap. Clarke cracks a small smile, but she still doesn't look up.

"Clarke," she mumbles, and _finally_ , Clarke peeks up at Lexa from under her lashes, but despite the small smile curved at her lips, those blue eyes are still sad, Lexa can tell. "Clarke, what is it?"

Clarke's shaking her head before Lexa can even finish her question. "It's nothing."

Her heart hurts at the look on Clarke's face. It's odd, how familiar her expression looks, but it's also odd how out of place the expression is. "Doesn't seem like nothing," Lexa says, craning her neck to try and catch Clarke's eyes again.

Clarke's really doing all she can to avoid eye contact, suddenly shy about their current topic of conversation, and Lexa doesn't want to push—the last thing she wants to do is make Clarke uncomfortable—but this is her best friend, and communication between them has become even more important recently with their change in intimacy.

Eventually, after a few well-placed pokes in Clarke's leg, she finally glances back up and holds Lexa's stare. "If it was anything important, I'd tell you," Clarke reassures her. "You know that, Lexa."

Well, Lexa used to know that, but now she's not so sure anymore.  

//

Octavia invites her out on a run, which—it's not totally out of the usual, but it is unusual in some regard. _Usually_ , it's Octavia, Raven, and Lexa, or Octavia, Lincoln, and Lexa, but today it's just Octavia and Lexa, and Lexa's now more than ever certain that Octavia knows, or at least has an inkling.

They've already done three miles when Lexa asks for a break, and while she tries to catch her breath at a nearby bench, Octavia continues to stretch and run in place until Lexa's ready to go again.

They make it all the way through the rest of the running path in the park and then back to Octavia and Lincoln's apartment. Now that they're not gasping for air or distracted by the sights of the park around them, Lexa's expecting an interrogation, but what she gets instead is, "You know, Lexa—you can't spell earth without art."

Lexa stands there and waits for more, but Octavia's just looking at her, waiting as well, and so Lexa mumbles, "That's—yeah, I guess not..."

"But sometimes art needs earth more than earth knows," Octavia continues, and okay—Lexa's _completely_ lost now.

"I...I'm not comprehending," she says, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "Are we talking about MoMA?"

"No, Lexa, we're talking about Clarke."

 _And there it is_ , what she'd been waiting for. If all Octavia wanted to do was talk about Clarke this entire time, she really could have saved Lexa the energy of running five miles on a Sunday morning when she still has a ton of job applications to fill out.

"Clarke, _right_ ," Lexa drawls, narrowing her eyes a little. "So this about—"

"It's not," Octavia reassures her, before Lexa can even finish her sentence. "I'm not talking about what happened that night—that's behind us; everyone agreed we'd just not talk about it anymore, so I won't keep going on about it. What I meant is that—Clarke seems happier these days, even happier than when she was with Wells. Have you noticed?"

She shrugs, because she actually hadn't noticed, but Octavia's looking at her and waiting again, and Lexa doesn't want to seem like a neglectful best friend, so she says, "Of course, yeah..."

"And do you know why that is?"

Lexa thinks that maybe she does, but then again, maybe she doesn't. And if she does know, it probably isn't the same thing Octavia thinks she knows—is it? This all just feels like an elaborate test, one that Lexa's not doing too well on, and one that Octavia has set up to deliberately make sure she fails, just to make Lexa sweat.

"I don't, but maybe I'll ask her later," Lexa says, because it seems like the easiest way to answer that question without giving too much away, and although Octavia looks a little miffed by the response, she smiles anyway and then tells Lexa that they need to do this again sometime soon.

Lexa hopes not _too soon_.

//

"She knows."

There's a scoff, and then, "No, she doesn't."

"You sound so sure," Lexa mutters, tightening her grip on her phone so that it doesn't slip out of her sweaty hand.

"Trust me, Lex. It's fine— _we're_ fine, okay?"

"Are we?"

"Yeah."

Lexa sighs—nothing about this seems fine, not even Clarke, but her phone battery is only on seven percent, and so she bites back the urge to keep arguing her point and just says, "Okay, Clarke," before hanging up.

//

No one's listening to her, everyone's trying to offer their unsolicited advice that admittedly doesn't make any sense, and her first job interview is tomorrow morning, but Lexa calls Clarke over anyway, because her entire body feels wound up and frustrated and stiff, and Clarke is the only person who can calm her down in the way she needs.

They've never done it rough before, but as soon as Clarke knocks on the door and Lexa lets her in, Clarke practically jumps her, kissing Lexa, hard and wet, and it's everything Lexa needs without even knowing it. They skip all of the usual pleasantries of asking about each other's day, of bitching about an annoying boss, of offering water or ice tea to drink, and since Raven's not home, they take it straight to the couch.

It's almost been a week since the last time they were together— _together_ together—and Lexa's in utter need of release; she needs to be touched, _right now_ , and so she mumbles, "I need you, Clarke," and Clarke looks at her with these wide eyes that seem to stare straight through her, and then Clarke's hand is down her sweatpants, teeth nibbling on Lexa's ear as she breathily whispers, "I'm right here, Lex—I've got you."

Everything is fast and heady and desperate tonight, and Clarke takes control, sucking a trail down Lexa's neck as she flexes her fingers. She's different tonight, and Lexa would question it if she wasn't enjoying it so much.

Every touch and bite Clarke offers leaves an imprint of ownership, of possession, of _mine mine mine_ , and Lexa doesn't mind, not one bit. She'll be Clarke's tonight. She'll be whatever Clarke wants, whatever she needs if Clarke continues this hasty pump of her fingers between Lexa's legs, but Clarke must have her own pent up frustrations to release, as she spreads her legs against Lexa's thigh and then grinds down on her with a desperate moan.

It's the fastest and roughest they've ever been together—it's carnal and needy and wild and hot—but suddenly, almost out of nowhere, Clarke's movements slow, her kiss becomes gentle, sweet, like the first time they were _really_ together, her lips languid and delicate against Lexa's, and her touch becomes tender, her stroke smoother, and Lexa feels like she's floating.

Clarke's usual nips, bites, and tugs turn into passionate, feathered kisses along Lexa's jawline and then down her neck, and it almost feels like she's being worshipped. The change is so abrupt that Lexa doesn't have time to really consider _why_ —to consider the reason behind Clarke's sudden affinity to look her in the eyes now as she brings Lexa all the way up and then holds her, shushes her, and then watches her carefully, _lovingly_ , as she brings Lexa all the way back down.

//

"Lexa? Lex..."

"Hm?"

"Are you awake?"

"No."

" _Lex_..."

"Fine, I am _now_. What?"

Clarke waits until Lexa turns over, but once she does, Clarke looks away and traces the space between them with her finger. "Am I the only girl you're sleeping with?"

Lexa closes her eyes again. "Why?"

"Is that a no?"

"No, it's a why."

"Lexa—"

" _Clarke_ ," Lexa groans sleepily, and then flips back over. "It's the middle of the night, and I have a job interview in the morning. Go back to sleep." There's a sigh before the bed dips and then lifts back up, and Lexa can't help but roll her eyes behind her eyelids. "Where are you going, Clarke?"

"Home."

Lexa turns over again to find Clarke angrily snapping her bra into place. "Why?"

"Because you won't answer my question."

To be quite honest, she's so exhausted she doesn't even remember what Clarke originally asked her. "What question?"

Clarke pauses with one leg in her jeans. "Seriously, Lex? You don't hear anything I say, do you? Octavia was right."

The lack of sleep must still be fucking with her head. "Wait—Octavia?" This is just too much, all at once, and she stares into the darkness of the room in confusion for a beat as Clarke zips up her pants. "What are you talking about? Of course I hear you, Clarke."

"If you paid any attention at all, Lexa, you wouldn't be so confused as to why I'm leaving," Clarke's voice is muffled as she slips her shirt on, "or better yet, why it used to be so important that I don't stay."

 _Fine_ , she'll admit it—in some regard, Clarke's totally right. Lexa has no idea what's going on, or what Clarke's talking about, but if there's one thing that she _does_ know, it's that none of this was an issue before they started this _arrangement_ of theirs. It's like they exchanged sex for ears, because ever since they started sleeping together, they've been listening to each other less and less, and Lexa knows what decision needs to be made.

It's difficult to say out loud, especially since Clarke's still staring at her with nothing on but a bra and a pair of jeans, but it's something that needs to be said.

"I've been thinking about this for a while now, and I'm sure you'll agree," Lexa starts, pushing up on her elbows to sit up a little more, "but I think we need to take a step back from all of this."

Clarke folds her arms over her stomach—it's that protective stance again, and Lexa wonders what it is Clarke's trying to protect herself from. "Take a step back," she echoes, swallowing hard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I think we should stop doing this," she explains, in layman' terms, "at least for now. It's obviously starting to come between us."

Clarke takes a deep breath and then blinks a few times in a row; admittedly, she looks taken aback, shocked, so maybe Lexa was wrong when she said Clarke would agree.

"Are you sure it's not something else that's coming between us?" Clarke asks, eyes searching—for what, Lexa couldn't tell you, but she's just about to ask when Clarke adds, "It's okay, Lex, you can tell me."

"What are you—no, Clarke, it's about our _friendship_. It's been taking a backseat to the sex," Lexa exasperates, "and it's starting to take its toll on _us_."

Clarke's folded arms only squeeze her body tighter. "So it's over, just like that? We can't try and have both?"

"We already tried to have both, Clarke, but as I just said, it's not—"

"No, I mean _both_."

There's a loaded pause—Lexa stares at Clarke, and Clarke stares right back, blue eyes wide and pleading. Those last words echo in her head, and Lexa struggles to make sense of them.  

When it finally hits her what Clarke means, Lexa flops back in bed with a chuckle, and she's expecting Clarke to start laughing with her any second now, but when that fails to occur, her laughter slowly dies in her throat until it's completely silent, and Lexa comes to the even slower realization that Clarke's dead serious.

"But we're not even—" She cuts herself off and laughs again, but this time it's dry and uncomfortable. "That doesn't make any sense, Clarke. I'm not going to date you just so we can continue having sex."

"It really fucking figures," Clarke scoffs with a dry laugh of her own. "And you say _I'm_ all about the sex. That's the _last_ thing I care about, Lexa. I was honest with you about everything that happened with Wells, but you can't even offer the same courtesy of telling me what's going on between you and your ex? You're such a hypocrite."

Lexa's bedroom door slams shut, and then the front door slams shut, but Lexa can only lie in bed, stunned and perplexed with what just happened. Closing her eyes, she flops back in bed, and then realizes, belatedly, that she can't even call Clarke to check on her, because her phone is sitting right there on the nightstand beside Lexa's head.

Right on cue, the phone vibrates, shaking the entire nightstand, and a message from Octavia pops up on the screen that reads: _did you tell her yet?? I bet you 10 bucks she feels the same way ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a while :/ enjoy!

She spends a good three minutes—maybe it's three minutes, maybe it's thirty seconds, but it feels like she's thinking way too hard and way too deeply about everything _Clarke_ for way too long—until she picks up her phone to call Octavia, because if anyone can give Lexa answers, it'll be her, but it's Lincoln who ends up grumpily answering the phone, obviously half-asleep.

Pleasantries like _hello_ or _good morning_ are sometimes necessary and always polite, of course, but there are more pressing matters at hand, and so Lexa gets right to it, asking, "Where's Octavia?"

"She's in the bathroom," he tells her, sounding all disorientated, and then yawns, "It's...three in the morning, Lexa, what's going on?"

"Clarke," she mumbles, and instead of going on and on about _everything_ , Lexa only explains, "She left her phone after storming out of my place and I—she'll need it, but she won't want to come back to get it from me."

Lincoln hums in understanding and just seems to get it, somehow. He doesn't even ask why Clarke would storm off, why Clarke wouldn't want to see her, why Clarke was even mad enough to leave Lexa's place at three in the morning.

Seems their dirty little secret wasn't much of a secret, after all.

"Hey, hey, Lexa, take a deep breath," Lincoln advises, and Lexa does so, flopping back in bed to regain her calm. "I'll be over in a few hours to pick up her phone and return it to her, okay? Just—it'll be fine."

Lexa really wishes that were true, but she has this weird feeling that nothing is going to be fine—not anytime soon, but, "Thanks, Lincoln," she says anyway.

"No problem. Now get some sleep."

She tries—like, she really, _really_ tries—but she doesn't, not really.

She can't stop her mind from replaying their conversation over and over again, replaying the last two months over and over again, wondering if she really did miss something, if Clarke really had been giving her obvious signals, wondering if she should have seen this coming.

Maybe she should have.

Maybe she did.

All she can do is stare up at the dark ceiling and force herself not to think about it too deeply, at least not until later.

Obviously, that doesn't really work, as all she can picture during her interview the next morning is the dismayed look on Clarke's face when Clarke mentioned Lexa's ex right before storming out. Lexa sits there, half-listening to her interviewer drone on and on and on— _and then on and on some more_ —but all Lexa can hear is Wells' words from that day in the library: _Whoever she touches, she always seems to hurt_. _It's not done intentionally, but it always..._

It's not done intentionally, but it always...

It always—... _what?_

Maybe she should have let Wells finish.

Maybe Wells wasn't even talking about Clarke to begin with.

She can barely keep her eyes open, and she's pretty sure she tanks the interview, even with three cups of coffee in her system. Somehow, she's not even that concerned about it. Sure, she needs the job—like, it's a paid internship and everything; she'd get to learn about her craft _and_ make money at the same time—but all of that just pales in comparison to what happened last night. Compared to the fact she could've possibly just lost the best friend she's ever had.

It's officially summertime, and it's one of the most beautiful mornings of the year so far, but Lexa can't help but feel an overcast of clouds over her as she leaves her interview and sets out toward this hole-in-the-wall diner a few blocks down the road.

With her darkest shades on, she drags her way down the street, in true zombie fashion—she'd know, of course, she watches _The Walking Dead_.

She couldn't go back to sleep after talking to Lincoln last night—after Clarke yelled at her, after Clarke stormed out of the apartment, after that revealing text from Octavia popped up on Clarke's phone—and now she's definitely paying for it.

But speaking of phones, hers is vibrating in her pocket, and Lexa doesn't even think twice before quickly reaching for it. Of course she's hoping it's Clarke, but she's disappointed when **_X Clarke(s) the spot_** is not the name flashing across her screen.

She doesn't even get a chance to say hello before she hears, "Selfish."

"Excuse me?"

"Selfish," the voice repeats, "Say it, Lexa."

"Why should I—"

" _Say it._ "

"Selfish?"

There's an annoyed groan, and then, "One more time, with a little more certainty, please."

"Selfish..." Lexa sighs, rolling her eyes up to the blue sky that reminds her just a little too much of Clarke's sad eyes.

"That's what you are," the voice tells her, "I haven't heard from you in three fucking weeks, Lexa, what the hell?"

It's not the first time she's been told that she's gone awol. It's also not the first time that one of her friends from home has nagged at her for disappearing off the face of the earth. That _arrangement_ with Clarke—well, it took up a lot more of her time than Lexa initially realized.

But she guesses that's not going to be a problem anymore—or ever again, for that matter. She's not sure if that should strike such a nerve in her, but it does. She needs Clarke, of course—she's her best friend, she's her person, her weirdo, her partner in crime—but Lexa also needs _Clark_ e. It's almost become an addiction; giving someone she cares for something they need, something they can't get from anyone else, something only she can provide in just the way they like it.

"I'm sorry, Anya," Lexa says, and then blinks away memories of _Clarke_ as she tries to separate them from Clarke, "Just—a lot's been happening lately. What's going on?"

"Never mind me, what's up with you?" Anya asks, but then, before even waiting for a response, she adds, "How's Clarke?"

They've been a package deal since freshman year, so however Clarke is doing, Lexa is more than likely doing the same. That's what everyone just presumes, anyhow. And it used to be true, it _used_ to be, but now, Lexa has no idea how Clarke is, and it kind of makes her stomach turn.

"Clarke's fine," she lies, because Clarke probably isn't fine.

Anya hums like she doesn't quite believe that. "Are you guys not talking?"

"What makes you ask that?"

Okay, so _maybe_ that came out a little too defensive, but Anya doesn't seem to notice. "Whenever I ask about Clarke, you always have some wild anecdote about something weird she did."

"I'm just tired, Anya. Didn't get much sleep last night," Lexa adds, and it's probably the first honest thing she's said to anyone since before her interview this morning. "But hey—can I call you back later? I'm meeting someone for brunch in a few."

"You better call me back, Lexa, or I _swear_ —"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Lexa groans, already moving her phone away from her ear. "You'll pummel me like a gorilla."

//

She finds Octavia almost immediately, sitting at a table near the front next to a window, and Lincoln's with her, of course. They're pretty much always together, always looking cool, always complimenting each other—that awesome couple that everyone either wants to be, or wants to be friends with.

They started off as best friends, ironically, and Lexa almost allows her mind to imagine herself and Clarke like that—as that cliché, cute couple that makes everyone super jealous—but then Octavia cuts into her head and says, "How'd the interview go?"

"Horrible," she mutters, pulling her sunglasses off, and Lincoln nods like he gets it, but he probably doesn't because his best friend never randomly told him that she loved him only for Lincoln not to feel the same way. "I haven't heard from Clarke yet."

"I just gave her phone back, like—less than an hour ago,” Lincoln tells her, pushing a half-eaten muffin across the table. “Just give it some time."

Lexa picks at the muffin. It looks kind of dry and not very tasty. Or maybe it’s just her lack of appetite. But she hasn't eaten all day and her stomach feels like it's about to digest itself, so she plucks off a piece and chews.

Not too bad.

Nobody says anything for a beat. It would be awkward that two of her close friends have been aware of what she hasn’t been aware of up until only a few hours ago, but well—okay, yeah, it is awkward. She’s been having sex with Clarke for almost two months now, and what she once thought was a heavily guarded secret between them is now open to anyone and everyone. Sure, only Octavia and Lincoln know, but that’ll never last.

She should have paid more attention. She should have noticed. She should have caught on that Octavia knew the entire time, and if Octavia knew, Lincoln knew by extension, which now explains her odd conversation with him the other day about that juggling clown.

Since no one’s saying anything, and since Lincoln has work in less than an hour, Octavia clears her throat and explains, "Clarke told me what happened the morning after your third or fourth go-around."

Lexa would smile at _go-around_ , because funny euphemisms for sex are always amusing, but she’s just not feeling it today—not after what happened last night. Not after she was blindsided by a confession that wasn’t actually even a confession but a easily decoded text message.

And ironically, Octavia adds, “I saw an admittedly scandalous text from you on Clarke’s phone when she was in the bathroom, so she—well, she had no other choice but to spill."

Lincoln crinkles his nose in thought. "What is it with Clarke leaving her phone places?"

He has a point there, and Lexa would give it more thought if she wasn't currently thinking about something else. She racks her brain for what text Octavia could be referring to, but that is also beside the point.

Lexa bites her lip and asks, "What did she say?"

"The same thing you told Lincoln about Costia—that it's just casual." Octavia raises those sharp, dark eyebrows suspiciously. "Seriously, Lexa?" she accuses, and _wow_ —the judgement she's receiving right now is a little annoying, but not unexpected. "Mixing Clarke and _your ex?_ "

"Not cool," Lincoln adds.

"Guys—"

"Clarke didn't even do that," Octavia interrupts her. "She ended things with Wells before you guys even became a consistent thing."

It’s truly frightening to learn how much of what she once thought was her own information is actually _everyone’s_ information. People talk. They never _stop_ talking. Who knows what Wells’ has been saying about his and Clarke’s breakup. Who knows if others have noticed a change in Clarke and Lexa’s relationship. Who knows how much other information has been mistaken and misconstrued to mean something else entirely.

Lexa sighs. "There's nothing going on with Costia, guys."

"But the other day," Lincoln mumbles, confused, "You said that—"

"This is all just a huge misunderstanding," she tells them, deciding it's really none of their business how all of this got mixed up—again, beside the point, "A _stupid_ misunderstanding, all up to the point where Clarke thinks she has feelings for me."

There's another beat of silence where Lincoln and Octavia share a conflicted look. "Yeah," Octavia scoffs, laughing a little, "Try telling that to Clarke."

"I would, if only she'd answer her phone," Lexa mutters, staring at Clarke's number on her own phone, practically willing it to ring. It doesn't happen, not now, and so Lexa turns her phone over on the table and then looks at Lincoln to say, "Thanks for returning it to her, by the way."

Lincoln smiles, for the first time this morning. He looks exhausted, and Lexa feels a little bad, because—well, he was probably up way before his regular alarm to do Lexa's bidding, and she appreciates it, so so much, having friends like this who don't take sides—not on a super strict militia level, anyway.

"No problem," he says, waving her off, because to him, it's not a big deal. This is what Clarke does. She'll get over it soon. That's what _they_ think, but—they don't know Clarke the way Lexa does. "And believe me," he adds, shrugging a shoulder, "She'll reach out."

//

Three days pass.

Clarke doesn't reach out.

//

The next time they see each other, it's weird and uncomfortable because everyone's around and they don't have much time to talk.

For the first time this summer, everyone's schedules line up, so Monty suggests they all go out for lunch, and Lexa's more than game, hoping she can finally see Clarke and talk about what happened, but of course, of course, _of course_ , Clarke can only stay for three minutes because she has work or something, an obvious excuse—because what is _or something_?—and it could just be Lexa, but it kind of seems like Clarke wouldn't want to talk even if she wasn't rushing off.

Another three days, and then Lincoln's birthday party comes along. It's a dressy event, hosted at this classy nightclub uptown, and Lexa usually has Clarke here at the apartment to help her with her makeup, but now it's just her and Raven, and it feels...less than.

Lacking.

Empty.

And apparently Lexa's not the only one who notices something's amiss.

"You've been mopey," Raven says, all up in Lexa's face as she applies some more eye shadow to give it that smokey look.

"I'm always mopey," she says, because it's her default.

Raven's not buying it—that much is certain by the bland look she shoots Lexa once she steps back to admire her work. "Yeah, but not like this," she reasons, "Rather than it being your aesthetic, you're just plain sad all the time. It's depressing."

"I'm sorry my sadness is making you depressed."

"Ha, so you admit it—you _are_ sad," Raven exclaims, a bit too cheerfully to be appropriate considering the topic of conversation, and Raven must notice, for she tampers her excitement down and then carefully asks, "What's wrong, Lex? Did you and Costia quit the ex sex? She hasn't really been around lately."

Lexa tries to blink away the sudden tears that well up and decides to blame it on the makeup if Raven mentions it. "It's over," she says, and then wonders if she means their friendship or the sex. Maybe both, but she's definitely not talking about their friendship when she adds, "Maybe it was a mistake to begin with."

"I get it," Raven says, picking through her makeup bag for the right shade of lipstick. "There's just certain people you should never mix with sex. Besties and exes, especially—always off limits, you know? It'll only get complicated and messy. Now, pucker up those kissable lips for me."

Lexa does as she's told with a sigh through her nose, closing her eyes and envisioning someone else's hand holding her face still, someone else's breath on her chin, someone else's vanilla scent clouding up her personal bubble.

Besides Raven, it's no mystery who she wants here—not to anyone but Clarke.

//

She opts not to drink tonight—not around Clarke, at least, but after a half hour goes by and everyone's arrived and halfway tipsy, Lexa realizes Clarke's not even going to show, and it's just so ridiculous how Clarke is dealing with this. Lincoln's their friend, and now he has to suffer because of some bullshit going on between them.

Lexa's so over it—like, she's done waiting around for Clarke. This has gone on long enough, and Lexa has given Clarke enough space. A whole week has gone by, and it's not like she even did anything wrong.

Pushing past a wildly dancing Jasper, she quickly finds Octavia and Lincoln over by the bar and, "Where’s Clarke?"

It's a question that she always seems to be asking. The bittersweet taste of that night, the taste of Clarke, always makes an appearance with—Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? _Where's Clarke?_

Octavia gives her a guilty look. "She said she couldn’t come because she has to open early tomorrow morning."

"Bullshit," Lexa mutters under her breath.

"That’s what I said," Wells chimes in, obviously drunk as he throws his arms over both Lexa and Octavia's shoulders, "But she wouldn’t budge."

Raven appears beside them, scoping out the dance floor with hungry eyes. " _Who_ has a bulge?"

"Budge, not bulge," Octavia laughs, receiving a drink from Lincoln. "Thanks, babe."

He accepts her thanks with a cutesy peck on the lips, and just the sight of it makes Lexa ache for—for...

She hastily moves out from under Well's heavy arm, and she barely hears Octavia call out for her before she's ducking and weaving her way around dancing and gyrating bodies, and towards the exit.

It's a chilly night, but Lexa barely feels anything against her hot skin as she catches a cab.

//

She knocks a little harder than necessary, but she's mad as hell, and she kind of doesn't care.

Someone she doesn't recognize answers the door. He says his name is Brad. Lexa doesn't introduce herself in return. She asks for Clarke instead.

Brad looks miffed by her rudeness, but he lets her in anyway, and Lexa's met with the usual chaos of the studio apartment—people playing instruments and singing in the living room, jumping on the couches, beating drumsticks against the walls. It's loud and hectic, and it reminds Lexa of that night, the night it all started.

This time, at least, she doesn't have the buzz of alcohol messing with her senses. At the _very_ least.

"Band practice," Brad tells her, but Lexa didn't ask for an explanation—she just wants to see Clarke.

"Where's Clarke?" she asks again, _always_ asking, and Brad finally tells her that Clarke's in her room before heading into the kitchen with a hint of annoyance.

There seems to be music coming from everywhere. Outside Clarke's room and even _inside_ Clarke's room. Lexa can hear the aggressive rap music seeping out through the cracks in Clarke's door. It's blasting, loudly, too loud, and Lexa considers knocking, but what good would that do? _None_ —none at all, and so she walks right in.

The door's open anyway, just for her, it seems, but Clarke doesn't notice her, not at first. She's painting, rushed and ragged, splattering angry black and red colors on a white canvas. It's such an angry painting, such an angry mix of colors, of sharp splatters and chaotic strokes.

It's painful to see, knowing that's how Clarke feels, knowing that's what's going on inside her head, her _heart_.

"Clarke..." Lexa tries, her own anger fading away in the face of Clarke's.

Clarke doesn't hear her above the music. She continues to run her fingers, painted red and black, down the colorful backdrop, creating long streaks that almost look like tears.

Suddenly, Lexa feels like she's intruding, secretly stepping in on a private, intimate moment that belongs to Clarke and Clarke only, and Lexa's faced with the panicked need to be anywhere but here.

She turns to leave, at the exact same time Clarke swivels around, and even though the music keeps on playing, angry rap lyrics surrounding them at every turn, it sounds like silence, feels like space, as soon as their eyes meet. Clarke's surprised, that much is obvious—her eyes widen and her cheeks color, but the music just keeps on blasting for a while.

They look at each other some more, long seconds pounding away in time with the music, until Clarke flinches to attention and grabs her remote to turn off the speakers.

The silence is real now, and Lexa notices, for the first time, how hard her heart is beating. She wanted to ask so many questions. _Accusations_. She had them ready. She was so ready to yell. To convince. To push. But now, all she can ask is, "Why are you so angry?"

Clarke blinks. "What are you doing here?"

"You won't answer my calls," Lexa whispers, now that everything is oh so quiet—Clarke's room and even outside her room, "And now that you skipped out on tonight, it’s quite clear you’re avoiding me. Listen, I know you like to disappear and process things and brood on your own," like the true tortured artist she is, "but—you don't have to do that with _me_ , Clarke."

Clarke doesn't say anything. Those blue eyes slowly trail over Lexa's dressy attire, a direct contrast to what Clarke's wearing. She's in her street clothes, a white tank top and baggy jeans, covered all over in paint—her face, her hands, her hair. It's—honestly, it's quite an amusing sight, and if they weren't currently in this predicament, Lexa would be laughing her ass off.

But tonight is not a night for laughter, as Clarke looks like she'd rather do anything but.

"Why are you so angry?" Lexa repeats.

"I'm not angry."

"Clarke, I know you," she says, _pleads_. "Do not pretend I don't."

Clarke turns away, back to her easel. She dips her fingers into more black paint and then clenches her fists. "If you knew me at all, you'd know what was wrong."

Stuck between a rock and a hard place—between Clarke and her stubbornness—between emotion and rationality. It's more than frustrating. "This is about Costia," Lexa realizes, and it's not a question, because she already knows the answer.

It's written all over that colorful face of Clarke's, and Lexa tries to focus in on that until she notices Clarke's jaw clench at the mention of Costia.

"If you want to get back with your ex," Clarke mutters, wiping her hands off on her jeans, "don't let me stop you."

"So this isn't anger," Lexa points out, mostly to herself, "it's jealousy."

Clarke doesn't deny it, but she does have the decency to look ashamed. She turns around even more, her back fully to Lexa now, hiding her profile away and the rest of her expression.

Technically speaking, Lexa doesn't owe Clarke any explanations. They aren't dating, they never were, but—to Clarke, they were. To Clarke, this went so much deeper than Lexa knew.

Because of this—because the last thing she ever wants to do is hurt Clarke's feelings, Lexa softens her voice and says, "I'm not seeing Costia, okay? I haven't even spoken to her since our breakup." Clarke's shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath, and Lexa watches from across the room, waiting and waiting, but Clarke doesn't respond, doesn't say a word, so Lexa takes a step forward and adds, "That first time at my place—Raven heard someone leaving early in the morning, and so I told her it was Costia when it was actually you. She must have told Octavia, and I'm guessing Octavia told you, right?"

Sure, her lie to secure their secret—a secret _Clarke_ made Lexa promise to keep, ironically—created a huge mess, but at least she kept the secret in the first place. Maybe she shouldn't be the one in the doghouse when it was their friends' gossiping that ultimately landed them in this position.

Lexa takes another hesitant step forward, but she doesn't get close enough to touch. "There are no other girls, Clarke. I didn't know how much that mattered to you. If I had known, I would've told you a long time ago."

Silence.

Still nothing.

"Would you at least _look_ at me, please? I won't just stand here and talk to your back."

Another deep breath, and then Clarke looks at her, eventually. Her eyes look like they're hurting, and Lexa wonders what Clarke sees, but then she realizes she's doesn't have to wonder—she can see it all so clearly in that fiery painting resting on the easel behind Clarke.

"How can—why are you ignoring me like this? Why can't we just _talk_ about it?" Lexa pushes, standing close enough now that she and Clarke are face-to-face. "I mean, you’re obviously mad at me. I just wish I knew what I did wrong."

"You didn't—I'm not mad at you, Lex. I'm mad at myself, and I'm..." Clarke's lips tremble, eyes watering, but Lexa can only stare. "I...I don't _know_." Her voice shakes when she says, "I guess I'm just—embarrassed?"

"Are you asking _me_?"

Clarke cracks a smile at that, even though it’s quite obvious she doesn’t want to. ”Shut up."

" _There's_ Clarke," Lexa kids, and now that she's close enough to touch, she hesitantly rests a hand on Clarke's forearm. "Why are you embarrassed? It's just me, right?"

The response comes after a hesitant beat. "Not right."

That one throws her—it wasn’t a response she was expecting. She should probably start getting used to that. "Not right?"

Clarke's smile is sad now, bittersweet—tortured. She looks down at Lexa's hand and then asks, "You really didn't know how I felt?"

Now that she thinks back, well—yeah, she really should have noticed, perhaps, even though the signs were less like signs and more like random happenings that would take a professional mathematician to properly equate.

 _Clarke_ was the one who didn't want to stay over. _Clarke_ was the one who didn't want anyone to know about their arrangement. _Clarke_ was the one who made Lexa promise that their friendship would always come first. If anything, it's a wonder Lexa _ever_ realized. If it wasn't for Octavia's text, she'd probably still be in the dark.

Lexa draws her hand away when she feels Clarke's body stiffen. "You didn't exactly make it," she trails off, searching for words, "...obvious."

Clarke nods like she understands, and maybe she does. "Yeah, well," she tries to explain, anxiously smearing black paint between her thumb and forefinger. "I tried so hard to separate you and I from _us_ —that it probably just seemed invisible. Lex, listen, I don’t know how this happened, or why, but—"

"I…I might," Lexa interrupts, catching Clarke's eyes, and suddenly she's nervous—scared of what damage the words about to leave her mouth will cause. "Clarke, have you ever thought about _why_ your past relationships didn't work out? Why your breakups from Finn and Wells ended pretty similarly. I mean, maybe it’s because, well...because of some personal issue with _yourself_ , knowing that they couldn't fully—"

Clarke’s cheeks are practically as red as the paint in her hair. "Lexa, don’t—"

"—but now that you've found that in _me_ ," Lexa soldiers on, refusing to let Clarke break through her courage, "Maybe you're confusing the way I can _make_ you feel with your actual feelings."

She’s been thinking about this for days now, too many days, and it’s what makes the most sense, really. They’ve been friends for three years, best friends for two—wouldn’t Clarke have known if she had feelings for her by then?

Clarke looks mad—not super mad, not pissed mad, but _pretty_ damn mad. Mad enough to have to take a calming breath and not say anything in response for a good five seconds before she whispers, "I know how I feel, Lexa, and it has nothing to do with the sex, okay?"

"Did it not begin after we started sleeping together?"

"It did, but—"

"Then how can you know for sure?"

"Because I know myself!" Clarke exasperates, running a hand through her hair and painting it black as well. "The way I feel—it began after we started having sex, sure, whatever, but it...it wasn't the sex that got to me, Lexa. Suddenly, it was just you."

"See, that's what I don't get," Lexa presses, "Why so suddenly? How come _now_ and not before?"

It’s the question she’s been wanting to ask but hasn’t had the courage to up until now. Now, in the heat of this disagreement, this argument, this lovers quarrel—whatever you want to call it—Lexa’s tongue is no longer tied. Now, all she wants to know is the truth.

Clarke looks on the verge of tears, but she takes a steadying breath, remains silent for a beat, and then says, quietly, ”Do you remember that weekend right before finals started? It was a Saturday and you ordered—"

"Portuguese takeout," Lexa recalls, shrugging a shoulder, because yeah—of course she remembers, "because it's your favorite."

Clarke smiles timidly, eyes focused on the paint-covered floor beneath their feet—Clarke’s bare feet splattered with paint, Lexa in red heels that somehow have droplets of black paint on the tip.

"After we ate, we had planned on _...you know_ ," Clarke lowers her voice to say, because she can hardly ever utter the words, and Lexa used to find it hilarious—now it just hurts. "But I was insecure because I felt bloated after stuffing my face with food, and so you—do you remember what you did, Lex?"

"I ate the rest of your food so that we were both sluggish and bloated." Lexa smiles at the memory with a roll of her eyes, and then laughingly adds, "But it was really just an excuse to try your baby-back ribs."

Clarke smiles and then moves closer to her, eyes bright with something other than sadness. Lexa's expecting a punch in the shoulder, maybe even a hug, but what she gets instead is a confident hand streaking black paint down her cheeks. Clarke laughs, that bubbly giggle that Lexa can't resist, and so Lexa laughs too before grabbing for Clarke's wrists.

Somehow, they're even closer now, and Lexa can feel Clarke's breath on chin, just like she imagined earlier, when Clarke says, "You look like a warrior ready for battle."

"Oh good," Lexa sighs in mock relief, "I thought I might resemble a raccoon or something."

Clarke laughs again, lower this time, and then takes Lexa’s hand, rubs a thumb over her fingers, and it’s not an unfamiliar touch—they’ve held hands multiple times before—but now, with the added tension of unrequited feelings looming over them, with the sudden observation that they're not as far away from Clarke's bed as Lexa originally thought, Lexa comes to the realization that she’s being seduced...

...by _Clarke_.

This is a first.

Usually, when they're _together_ , neither she nor Clarke are ignorant to why they're _together_ ; there's usually no heavy flirting, no needless touching of the hands or face, not even any deep eye contact, because _this_ —it's always just been an arrangement.

It has for Lexa, at least.

And she had originally thought that’s what Clarke wanted. But today, everything's different. Clarke's fingers are slowly wrapping around Lexa's wrist, bringing her closer until they're practically breathing each other's air. Lexa would feel suffocated if it weren't for the familiarity of Clarke's touch. It's different, yes, but it's also intoxicating, that utter need in Clarke's eyes that has probably been there for way longer than Lexa's even realized.

"Lex," Clarke whispers, blue eyes so open and so, so _blue_.

A sad blue.

A needy blue.

In a way, Lexa wants this. She wants _Clarke_. She always will, and of course she knows what Clarke is up to—it's really no question as to what's going on here—but she asks anyway: "What are you doing, Clarke?"

Clarke doesn’t let go; she only breathes through her nose and then looks up at Lexa to say, "Do you really want this to end, Lex?" She doesn’t. She likes what they have. She wishes it could go on forever. "You enjoy this just as much as I do," Clarke continues, as if she can read Lexa's every thought, "don't you?"

Here she is, once again, caught between Clarke and that damn hard place. "Of course I do, Clarke..." she trails off, when Clarke’s lips slowly separate.

"...but?"

"What?"

Clarke’s eyes lower to Lexa's lips, but she sounds disappointed when she says, "I know there's a but in there somewhere."

Of course there is, but—just _once_ , Lexa doesn’t want there to be. She wishes she could control what she wants, what she can have, and what should definitely be off limits. But if she knew how to do that, they wouldn’t be in this predicament to begin with. After all, this all started with a drunken moment on her roommate’s bed because urges weren’t ignored and actions weren’t second guessed.

The same thing happens now, and Lexa doesn’t even know who kisses whom first—all she knows is that Clarke’s hands are pressed against her cheeks, their lips sliding together in a rush; the kiss is sloppy and needy, and so, so passionate, and Lexa knows this is a bad idea as soon as it starts, but she lets the kiss go on for another few seconds until she feels a thigh pressing up against her crotch and—

"Clarke, wait…" Lexa tries to catch her breath as she wraps her fingers around Clarke’s wrists to pull her away. "We can't—this isn't a good idea."

 _Whoever she touches, she always seems to hurt_.

 _Whoever she touches, she always seems to hurt_.

 _Whoever she touches, she always_ —

Clarke nods like she understands, but Lexa knows she doesn’t. "But this feels right, doesn't it? You can't tell me that this is all just purely physical for you."

It’s not just physical.

It’s—complicated, complex, _messy_.

"It'll never be just that, Clarke. You know that..."

Clarke gently tugs her hands away. "Do I?"

"Clarke—"

"Clarke?"

They look over towards the door—the door that Lexa stupidly left wide open. It’s that guy from earlier. Brandon? No, _Brad_. He’s holding up a phone and saying, "Sorry, just—you left this on the couch, Clarke. Someone named Wells has been blowing up your phone for the last fifteen minutes."

He hands it over and then casts an odd look between Lexa and Clarke before heading out, shutting the door behind him.

Clarke looks down, squints her eyes at her phone for a second, and then breathes out an amused scoff.

Lexa knits her eyebrows. "What is it?"

"A heads-up. I guess Wells had a feeling you were coming over here."

Her head hurts, suddenly, and it's just—all of this is just so _backwards_. It should be _Lexa_ warning Clarke that Wells is coming by after _they_ haven't been speaking. It should be _Lexa_ comforting Clarke after Wells did something stupid like allowing her to kiss him before they even figure themselves out first. It should be _Lexa_ casting a shady glance at Wells, not dumb old Brad.

It hurts—not only the fact that Clarke needs a warning before seeing her now, but...everything is backwards, and it _hurts_.

Clarke’s just smiling at her phone now, and Lexa shifts awkwardly and then tries to peek over, but Clarke only pulls her phone away from Lexa's line of sight and says, "There's also a text from Octavia. You didn’t believe my early morning work excuse?"

"Of course not," she mumbles—anyone with a nose would be able to smell that bullshit.

But Clarke only smirks. "You do know me."

Lexa doesn’t know whether to smile or frown, so she does neither and instead just says, "I should probably go."

"Do you have to?"

"It's getting late," and the last thing they need is for anything else to happen tonight that should definitely _not_ happen. Lexa likes to think she can control herself, but—that doesn't hold up around Clarke. Not anymore, at least.

Clarke nods slowly, bites her bottom lip in concentration, and then hesitates before reaching forward to run her fingers through the black paint on Lexa's face, creating long, uneven streaks, painting Lexa the way she sees her, as if she's the blank canvas now. And maybe she is.

"Now you look like a fierce commander crying out for your people," Clarke whispers, and Lexa thinks she'd rather be that any day over how she feels right now as just Lexa.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone who has questions or comments about the story, please hit up my tumblr inbox. i don't answer questions on this website, so if you want a response, just use this url: http://acid-glue234.tumblr.com/ask


	7. Chapter 7

Somehow, someway, she gets the job—rather than the position she was expecting, she's more like a glorified assistant, but she's getting paid and earning course credit, so she can't really complain.

Suddenly, she's a whole lot busier now, creating charts and graphs for presentations, learning the basic accounting software, writing up reports, fetching coffee for her boss. She comes home tired, with only enough energy to eat a cup of Ramen, and then she's passed out in bed by ten o'clock for the night.

But maybe it's better this way. She and Clarke have decided—more so Clarke than Lexa—that it may be wise to give each other some space, to think, to air out their thoughts, to figure out their feelings, without the very high possibility of ending up naked and in bed together.

It's crazy that it has even come to this, but she's quickly learning that being near Clarke, seeing Clarke, _wanting_ Clarke, has practically become second nature, and whenever they're together, it's like there's this horny magnet pulling them even closer, and before they know it, clothes are shed, fingers are tangled, and two bodies are one.

If it weren't for this job, Lexa would be having an even harder time staying away from Clarke. It's her exhaustion at the end of the day that makes the distance survivable, so at least one redeemable thing has come out of this summer.

The second thing she's learned recently—social media is a liar.

If there's anything that everyone knows about this generation and the 21st century, it's that anything on the Internet is only about twenty percent true. The other eighty percent is the complexity of social media that's so unnecessarily intricate that it's difficult to tell what the hell some people are even talking about, and Lexa's not up her own ass or anything—because not _everything_ is about her, she knows—but the picture Clarke posted yesterday on her Instagram of a bent penny with the caption, _does it even pay to tell the truth?_ could quite possibly have something to do with her and Clarke's recent...troubles.

Clarke is a big goof, sure, but she's an artist, first and foremost. If she's not expressing herself, in one way or another, she's not _Clarke_.

Clarke is deep, emotional, expressive, and she looks for meaning in anything, even inanimate objects, bringing personification to a still world in order to explain how she feels. Lexa knows this, and so maybe she reads just a little too deeply into that picture of the bent penny.

Perhaps it's just a bent penny. Perhaps it's something more, but thanks to the confusion of social media, she'll probably never know for certain unless she just asks, but that'll never happen—Lexa has way too much pride; a pride that she refuses to give up.

She knows first hand—lurking is the easiest way to get her feelings hurt by reading Clarke's unexplained tweets and seeing the out of context pictures on her Instagram that may or may not have double meanings, that may or may not be about her.

She's supposed to be giving Clarke space, she knows, but even with distance, it's still super easy to lurk on a friend's page and see what they've been up to, and Clarke's been up to a lot lately...

...and most of it has been with Wells.

He's been in a few pictures with Clarke recently, so obviously they're hanging out again, which isn't too odd—Wells and Clarke were best friends way before Lexa came into the picture—but it's pretty damn clear, to everyone everywhere, that Wells still has feelings for Clarke. His feelings probably never went away to begin with—after all, it's only been about three months since their breakup.

Strange enough, if she and Clarke weren't currently trying to figure themselves out, Lexa would be glad that Wells is back in the picture. She always liked Wells, way more than that stupid Finn kid. Wells was good to Clarke, and going by the pictures up on Facebook, he still is—taking her out on the town to old movies or to art galleries to help take her mind off of whatever it is he thinks Clarke's currently going through, if she even told him, which...pretty doubtful.

But now it just feels like everything is happening all at once, and Lexa's not jealous, not of _Wells_ , but she can't help but be curious, wondering how Clarke's feelings will play into all of this, how this will affect everyone involved once she and Clarke finally see each other again.

//

For the first time in seven days, they decide to go out for coffee. Clarke's ready to see her, or so she says, and Lexa—well, she'll manage.

They squeeze it in between both their busy schedules—a Tuesday, a lot after breakfast, a little before lunch, which is like, the perfect time of day because it's not too busy, affording them a calm atmosphere to talk to each other without the squabbles of the morning rush or the constant chit-chat of the hungry lunch-goers.

She purchases a mocha latte and then grabs a table by the window because Clarke likes to people-watch, but she's only sipping her drink for about two minutes before Clarke walks through the double glass doors.

She has highlights now, which Lexa knew—Instagram, _duh_ —but it's different, seeing it in person. What a difference a week can make, Lexa realizes, taking in Clarke's tanned skin as she looks around the coffee shop and then finally spots Lexa. She's wearing dark shades, shielding not only her eyes but also her emotions, and Lexa feels naked, vulnerable in comparison.

She's been thinking over what she'll say to Clarke, after not seeing her for a whole week, after allowing herself time to reevaluate their relationship, but as soon as Clarke sits down across from her, all Lexa has the nerve to say is, "I'm sorry for making you stay."

A wrinkle forms between Clarke's brow. She pulls off her sunglasses, and then says, "I don't—what do you mean, Lex?"

Lexa swallows, annoyed by the way she started this conversation, but now that it's out there, out in the open, she has no other choice but to explain. "When we were still...sleeping together, you were obviously trying to figure yourself out, and when I—" She glances down at the table, shaking her head at how oblivious she'd been. "But I just kept nagging at you to stay the night, which probably only confused you more, and well—I'm sorry for that."

"No, no, don't be sorry. I should have stayed," Clarke tells her, but there's something in her eyes, something in her voice that makes Lexa wonder whether Clarke's talking about that first time she left Lexa at the party, or the multiple times following that. "I'm the one who should be sorry. My leaving only confused us both."

That's—okay, so, that's a bit of an understatement. If Clarke's referring to that first time she left, it didn't just leave Lexa confused. It left her alone and vomiting her guts out. It left her with tears in her eyes, continually asking, Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? _Where's Clarke?_

Bile rises in her throat at the thought, at the memory of realizing that Clarke was gone, just like that, leaving Lexa to deal with the stares, the judgement, the guilt, with the nausea of her confusion and disorientation. Ultimately, Clarke's departure left Lexa feeling so sick with her own actions that she spent the rest of the night with her face in a toilet.

Lexa tries to cough the feeling away by clearing her throat, and then settles on changing the subject. She decides not to ask about Wells, or the bent penny, or the constant tweets of _Fight Club_ quotes comparing the people in her life to insomnia.

Instead, she fiddles with Clarke's sunglasses and then peers up into those blue eyes for the first time since Clarke sat down. "So, um...a few of us—Lincoln, Miller, Jasper, and I," she lists off. "We're all going to Fever Con this weekend, and I have an extra ticket if you want to join us..."

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. "Can't," she mumbles, eventually, glancing down at Lexa's empty cup. "Work."

Lexa doesn't say anything because the excuse sounds kind of crappy, but despite her silence, she must not do a very good job of hiding her reaction.

Clarke's eyes widen immediately, as she probably remembers that was her bullshit excuse last time, but she quickly rectifies her response by saying, "Honest, Lex, the restaurant has been swamped lately so I thought I might as well pickup an extra shift or two."

"Yeah, yeah, that's—" Lexa doesn't know why, but the rejection, no matter how justified, still hurts. "No worries, Clarke. I'll just get you a t-shirt or something."

"Thanks," Clarke murmurs, and for a moment, it almost looks like she wants to add something, something important, but all that comes out is, "Nerd out for me, okay?"

Lexa offers a half-assed smile—it's all she can manage, for now. "You know I will."

//

Raven, so caught up with her summer mechanics program, has been none the wiser to the obvious emptiness in Lexa's eyes, as per usual. She's probably even more exhausted than Lexa these days, so Lexa doesn't really blame her for not noticing the daily intricacies of her life.

But this _thing_ with Clarke—it feels like an overwhelming secret that's constantly consuming her, and Lexa needs to talk to someone about it, but Octavia's so pushy, and Lincoln's always trying to offer his advice, and...it'd be nice for once, to tell somebody who's out of the picture, who's not in their inner circle or even technically involved, and so after about ten minutes of back and forth deliberation and hesitation, she calls Anya and then tells her everything.

"You're an idiot for letting this happen," Anya says, exasperation lacing her tone. "How many times have I told you not to sleep with your friends?"

For a moment, Lexa regrets telling her, but she needs this, in a way—a good kick in the ass to get her back on track. "A total of zero," she sighs, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

But instead of the kick in the ass she was expecting, what Lexa receives is, "So how is Clarke in bed? With that tongue, I bet she can—"

"Anya—"

"—do some wild shit that would have you down on your knees swearing fealty to her with tears in your—"

She hangs up.

The last thing she needs today is a reminder of what she can no longer have.

//

Her phone is ringing, and it's bright, too bright against the darkness of her room. She squints her eyes through the pain and sees a number she doesn't recognize. Often times, she'd let it go to voicemail, but with this new job as an assistant, it could be anyone trying to get into contact with her, even on her off hours, and so she sighs and then presses the green circle.

"Hello?" she murmurs, trying to sound as alert as possible.

Nothing, not at first, but then there's a quiet whisper of, "Lexa..." It sends a shiver down her entire body. She wasn't prepared for that voice, the rasp of it, the sorrow in it, the tiredness consuming it.

"Clarke?" she asks, just to be certain, and following is a hum, a _mhm_ , to notify her that it really is who she thinks it is, but, "Whose phone are you—"

"Lost mine."

"Of course you did." She wants to laugh at how _Clarke_ that is, but there's a sadness to Clarke's voice tonight, one that Lexa doesn't quite understand or recognize. Of course they're not back to how they once were—they may never be, but Lexa thought they were starting to get there, slowly getting closer, at least. "What’s up? It’s…" She squints again as she checks the time on her phone, "almost past midnight."

"Sorry, should’ve known you’d already be in bed," Clarke kids, but the joking lilt is lacking something—life, perhaps. "How was the convention?"

She doesn't mean to nerd out, but it's in her blood, and nothing—except maybe Clarke—has made her this excited in months. "Clarke, it was amazing," she gushes, rolling over in bed to rest on her stomach. "You know the woman who plays Trish on _Jessica Jones_? Well, she was there—took a picture with her and everything. And you'll never believe this, but the man who played male officer number three slipped Miller his number."

Clarke laughs, but it still lacks warmth. "Sounds like you guys had a great time. Sucks I missed it."

A lot of things suck. Least of all that. There are conventions in New York almost every month around this time of year. Clarke didn't miss too much. "Clarke, are you—" Lexa cuts herself off from asking Clarke what it is she really missed, but—no, not down that rabbit hole again. "You sound kind of...I don't know—down?"

"No, no, I've just been on my feet all day," Clarke rushes to say, but then she pauses before adding, "and well—I guess I..." She murmurs something under her breath, something Lexa can't quite make out. She'd ask Clarke to repeat, but it's obviously not something Clarke wants her to hear. "I just couldn’t stop thinking, and I, um—I don't know," Clarke sighs, but she does know. She just doesn’t want to say, and Lexa won’t make her. "You know what—never mind, it’s stupid."

"I highly doubt it," Lexa says, before thinking.

"And why's that?"

"Well, _you’re_ not stupid, so..."

Clarke snorts, and—now _that's_ a laugh. "Fancy logic there, nerd."

"Always," Lexa says, and she allows herself a tight smile, the first smile of the night. It's not the best she can offer, but it's something. Late nights, early mornings—they always feel heavy with the need to confess, to ask questions never brought up in daylight. She's itching to say something, to get answers, to unravel a mystery that's been bugging her since they started _this_ , and since Clarke's not going to air out her thoughts tonight, Lexa will. "I never asked this, but—I always wondered..."

She's not entirely sure what it is she wants to say, how to word the question appropriately, because it feels like it was so long ago, but then again, it feels like yesterday when Clarke breezed into her apartment with that messy bun and NYU pullover, with that look in her eyes, wanting more, asking for more, _needing_ more.

Lexa hugs her pillow and breathes, "What made you change your mind?" She hesitates for a moment, before adding, "When I offered, you said—well, you said it'd be too weird, but then a few days later, you were in my bed, and I just...I sometimes wonder why, is all."

Clarke is silent, but then she allows herself to breathe, static flowing through the speaker of the phone, and her next words are, "I got a taste of something I wanted again," she explains quietly, "something that only you could give me, and I didn't want to lose it." It sounds simple enough, and it makes sense too—Lexa felt the same way about it—but then Clarke adds, "It started off as just sex, but then...when I—it turned into something else for me. I wanted you, Lex, but I _needed_ distance. For a while, it was hard to differentiate."

It's more of a confession than she was expecting, but she really does appreciate the honesty, especially after _everything_.

"I get it."

"Do you?"

"I think I’m starting to," Lexa answers, and then they're both quiet in their respective bubbles of loose understanding, of daft hopefulness.

She takes a moment, to listen to the background of Clarke's setting, but there's not much to take in—it's mostly quiet, as is Lexa's end of the line.

Lexa digs her chin into her pillow. "Whose phone are you using?"

"My co-worker’s. I’m on a break." The flighty quality to Clarke's voice makes it sound like she's thinking about something else, and Lexa discovers her inclinations are spot on when she hears a shaky, "Lexa?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

A short pause, and then, "Of course, Clarke."

"The other night at my place," she trails off, and it could just be Lexa, but Clarke sounds nervous, suddenly, "You didn't exactly say whether you...well, you never said how you feel about me. You just...you gave me reasons why I couldn't like you, but then we kissed, and then...then..."

Lexa sighs and then rolls over onto her back. "And then Brad came in."

Clarke is quiet besides the sound of her breathing, and Lexa waits, patiently, for what's coming next. "But you never—I still don't know," she murmurs, and Lexa doesn't know either—if she did, maybe they would be talking _together_ instead of over the phone. "Plus, Octavia kinda has ten dollars riding on you feeling the same way. No pressure or anything."

Somehow, Clarke's awkwardly gruff laugh makes Lexa suddenly hyperaware of the loneliness of her apartment—without Clarke here, without Clarke beside her, it has _never_ felt so lonely.

She can almost feel the walls closing in, a sensation that has Lexa asking, "Are you—do you want to come over?"

It's a bad idea. She's never had a worse idea. They shouldn't be alone together, not at this sensitive time, where they're both so bare and vulnerable, especially under the pretenses of bringing each other comfort.

It's a horrible idea, but it's also a comforting idea, and Lexa wants it to come to pass more than she could ever hope. She wants Clarke here, with her, if only as a friend—if only for tonight.

"I thought you were sleeping," Clarke says, and to anyone else, she'd sound calm and collected, sensibilities together and all wits about her, but Lexa can hear the slight tremor in her voice, how it shakes on the last syllable of the last word she speaks.

"Not really tired anymore," is Lexa's excuse, but whoever said excuses can't be true? This phone call has woken her up, and she wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep even if she tried. "We can...watch _The Walking Dead_ , eat some junk food, prank call Jasper, you know..." _Like old times_ , she fails to add.

"Okay," Clarke drawls, and it sounds like she's smiling, which brings a smile to Lexa's lips as well, "I'll be right over."

//

How did they get back here—back to this place Lexa swore they would never go until they got their shit together—to touching, to kissing, to gyrating, to the highest of highs, to the brink of ecstasy? Lexa makes bad decisions, _often_ , especially when she's persuaded by Clarke, and she usually blames it on the alcohol, but tonight, there's none in her system.

All there is, is Clarke, at her door, eyes bright and needy, and Lexa has needs too.

Clarke says all the right things—like, "We need this," and, "Please, Lexa," and, "One last time, I promise," and Lexa vows, when she lets Clarke in, that this will be the last time.

Neither one of them will keep their promise, Lexa already knows. As soon as she brings Clarke back down, her neck glistening with a light sheen of sweat, eyes clenched shut, arms wrapped loosely around Lexa's bare back, she _knows_ —promises are meant to be broken.

"I miss you," she hears Clarke whisper against the stillness of the room, and Lexa—well, she misses her too.

It’s hard not to miss someone you’re always with, when suddenly—they’re gone. And admittedly, that’s how Clarke functions, and Lexa knows it. Clarke likes to deal with her problems by herself. She likes to distance herself, be alone for a while, and then deal with the chaos she left behind once she feels prepared to face it.

Lexa doesn’t fault her for it—everyone has their own methods of working through their problems—but she can’t lie and say that it doesn't mess with her head, her _heart_ , that it doesn't tear her up inside and frustrate the hell out of her.

Clarke is frustrating, so very frustrating sometimes, but Lexa has the patience of a saint, and maybe—just _maybe_ —that’s why they work so well together. Not just in bed, but as people.

She takes a chance and says it, even though she probably shouldn’t. "I miss you too, Clarke."

Clarke sighs, and it sounds like relief. Curling more into Lexa, she rests her chin down on Lexa's chest with a smirk and then asks, "What do you miss about me?"

Lexa doesn't have to think about it too hard, too long—it's all she's been able to think about lately, what's been _missing_ —but she takes a moment anyway; she releases a heavy sigh, runs her fingers through Clarke's silky hair, and then whispers, "I miss your stupid puns. Our inside jokes. Your innate fear of singing in public even though you’re so good at it."

"What else?" Clarke asks, her lips warm against Lexa's neck.

"The way your mouth forms when you call me a nerd. That cute little mole right above your lip. Your _lips_ ," Lexa adds, closing her eyes when those same lips leave a soft kiss against the corner of her mouth. "The touch of your hands. Your fingertips. The softness of your skin when we touch—when we _connect_."

" _Lexa_ …" Clarke groans, and the sound of it, that utter need, has the beat of Lexa's heart speeding up.

They're quickly venturing into round two territory, and Lexa's not so sure she minds. If anything, she's moving them right along in that direction, but Clarke doesn't seem to mind either, so Lexa slides her hands down Clarke's smooth back and then wraps her fingers around the curve of her thighs to bring her closer.

"And those eyes, Clarke—when you look at me," Lexa whispers, leaning up to brush their noses together, "I really miss the way you’d look at me."

Their fingers tangle as Clarke captures Lexa's lips in a searing kiss before saying, "I'm looking at you now, Lex."

"And so am I."

That voice—it sends a jolt through her body, and it's only a force of habit to push Clarke off of her when she peeks up to find Raven standing in the doorway. The lights flicker on, and it's way too bright, so Lexa closes her eyes, mostly in mortification that this is happening all over again.

She jerks the sheets up to cover both herself and Clarke. "Raven, what the hell?"

"Fuck," Clarke groans, burying her face in a pillow to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness of the room.

"Of all the things I anticipated on walking in on tonight, it definitely wasn’t my roommate and her best friend in post-coital positions," Raven quips, and then looks over to Clarke with a quirked brow. "You don’t look like Costia."

Clarke huffs, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. "We can explain."

"Oh I’d love to hear this one."

"Raven, close the door," Lexa demands, annoyed that her roommate is even awake at this time of night. "We'll be right out, okay? Just give us—"

Raven raises a finger. "If you're not out in five min—"

"Got it," she mutters, rolling her eyes, "Now close the damn door."

Once the door is shut, Clarke flops back in bed with another groan. "Fuck," she repeats, and Lexa can't help but agree.

//

It's almost like facing a parent after getting caught having sex, for the second time now, but instead of a disappointed mother, it's Raven, which is kind of worse, somehow, because she's _Raven_. She's made up of forty percent intrusive questions and sixty perfect inappropriate innuendoes. And with her arms crossed, lips pursed, she's more than ready to make Lexa rethink every action she's ever made in regard to Clarke.

Raven looks between them and then shakes her head. "Who else knows?"

"Um—Octavia, Lincoln, maybe Wells," Clarke lists off.

"And possibly Jasper."

Clarke looks to Lexa, eyebrows raised. "Jasper?"

Lexa shrugs. "At the convention, he made this sly comment about Lex Luther and Clark Kent secretly sleeping together unbeknownst to all of Metropolis."

"Well, shit. He _definitely_ knows," Raven says, and there's amusement in her tone, sure, but that doesn't help disguise the obvious irritation in her expression. "And if Jasper knows, Monty knows too. _Christ_ , I live with you, Lexa, how am I the last one to find out?" No one answers that question for her, and no one has to. Rolling her eyes at herself, Raven plops down on the couch with a sigh. "I am such a fucking idiot."

So, yeah, Lexa's not going to say otherwise, because it's kind of true—it's not like they tried super hard to hide their affair or anything (i.e., Lexa's wide open door).

Clarke continues to stand, and so does Lexa. She shifts from side to side, awaiting the interrogation, but it doesn't take long for Raven to say, "I have some questions." But _of course_ she does. "Has this been going on for as long as the Costia lie?"

Lexa winces guiltily. "Pretty much."

"Where?"

"Mostly here," Clarke mumbles, rubbing the back of her neck, "Sometimes my place."

"But sleeping together..." Raven crinkles her nose and then cuts herself off, which—thank _God_ , but then she opens her mouth again and asks, "Isn't it like, super weird?"

Clarke looks to Lexa, and Lexa tries not to blush too hard as she answers Raven's question. "I mean, for me, it started off that way, but after a while," she trails off, eyes glued to the wall to avoid everyone's eye contact, "it just became natural, and it felt...right."

Clarke doesn't say anything—her eyes are focused elsewhere too, but her cheeks are pink, and Lexa knows what that means.

Unfortunately, Raven notices too. "Are you guys—is this more than just sex?"

Lexa opens her mouth to answer when she hears a hard, "No," from Clarke. It's not said angrily or bitterly, it's just—definite and solid. It's a fact. "Just sex," Clarke adds, "Right, Lexa?"

It sounds like a challenge, feels like a test, but Lexa only has one answer to give, and that's, "Right."

//

Raven lets it go, for now, probably because the sun is almost up and none of them have gotten any sleep tonight, but it's pretty much a given that whatever information Raven needs, she'll bypass both Lexa and Clarke, and go straight to Octavia for the details. At this point, Lexa could care less. It'd only be hypocritical of her to question other people's decisions when her own decisions always seem to suck.

Work is a travesty the next day, and she struggles through every second of it, glancing at the clock every two minutes and hoping that it will just be five o'clock already. Not that it matters though. She won't go to Clarke, and Clarke won't come to her, and even though Clarke said to call her, that's pretty impossible when Clarke can never keep track of her damn phone long enough to accept a call.

Lexa thinks about sending a text anyway, because maybe Clarke got her phone back. Maybe some good samaritan found it on the subway, read the Find My iPhone message on the screen, and did God's work. It'd be just Clarke's luck too. She always seems to get what she wants. It takes a lot for her to get there, but more often than not, she gets it done.

That's just Clarke.

"Who's Clarke?"

"What?"

Maya, the other assistant, from Columbia University, hovers over Lexa's desk with a stack of papers in her hand. With a sigh, she slams the heavy stack down and then repeats her earlier question. "Who's Clarke? You just randomly said his name."

"Her name, and she's..." Lexa looks down at all the work on her desk before closing her eyes in exhaustion. "Never mind, it doesn't matter."

Thankfully, Maya doesn't question it. "I'm about to make a coffee run. You look like you could use a cup."

It's not a comment that's meant to be rude, Lexa knows—just an observation. And somewhere in her tired mind, Lexa finds the will to appreciate it. "Black, please," she says, flipping over the first page of the stack.

//

Sometimes Lexa gets thirsty at night, and sometimes Raven scares the shit out of her when she tries to fix the microwave in the dark with nothing but a flashlight and a screwdriver.

"Seriously, Raven?"

"I wanted to warmup some leftovers but the microwave wasn't working," she explains, pressing a few buttons on the black box until it finally turns on. "Fixed it."

"Congrats," Lexa mutters, flicking on the light switch.

"What are you doing up?"

"Water."

Raven fails to suppress a knowing smirk. "Hydrating?"

"Clarke's not here, Raven."

But that doesn't deter Raven one bit. If anything, it only spurs her on. "What are you doing?"

"I just told you," she says, heading for the refrigerator. "I'm thirsty."

"I mean with Clarke."

Lexa pauses for a moment before opening the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water. "I don't know," she answers, eventually. "We're still figuring it out, I guess."

"I saw the way Clarke looked at you the other night. She has feelings for you, Lexa," Raven says, as if Lexa doesn't already know that. "Stringing her along like this—you're really playing with fire...but you already know that, don't you?"

Lexa folds her arms over her chest. "Raven, I know what I'm—"

"If you know you're fucking things up, then why are you doing it?"

"It's complicated."

"No, what's complicated is your denial. We all know why Clarke wants you so much, but why do you want Clarke, huh?" It's three in the morning, and she woke up to fetch a bottle of water, not for a sleep-deprived interrogation from an insomniac. "You're beautiful and awesome, Lexa, and you can pretty much have sex with anyone of your choosing, so I guess what I'm asking is, why your best friend? Why _Clarke?_ "

Lexa's face falls. "I'm not sure whether to take what you just said as a compliment or—"

"Lexa _,_ just answer the question, dammit."

"Fine, okay," she exasperates, taking a deep breath, "but you have to promise you won't tell Clarke I told you."

A mischievous smile slowly spreads across Raven's lips. "Is it a juicy secret?"

" _Raven_."

"Okay, okay," she grumbles, hands up in surrender, "Calm down, _commander_ , I promise."

It's not the most reassuring thing to hear right before a confession, but Lexa has a feeling she's now trapped into telling anyway. "Before that night—" She bites down on the inside of her cheek, "where Clarke and I..."

"The night of the party, yeah," Raven finishes for her, impatient.

"Before then," Lexa stalls for a moment, and then finally just says, "Clarke had never gotten off with the help of somebody else."

Raven narrows her eyes in thought, and they both sit in a loaded silence that almost feels suffocating, until Raven smirks and asks, "Are you saying that Clarke can only orgasm when she's having sex with you?" She's smiling like it's some joke with a hilarious punchline, but when Lexa only nods, Raven's stupid grin slips away, and all that's left behind is bewildered confusion. "Wait, seriously?"

Lexa's heart drops into her stomach with the horrific realization that revealing this secret was probably not the smartest idea. "You can't tell anyone, okay? I'm trusting you with this, Raven."

"Got it, got it. I won't tell a soul," she promises, but then, "That still doesn't answer my question though. Sure, Clarke needs you on some level, whatever, but what's the catch?"

"The catch?" Lexa wonders.

"Yeah, the _catch_ ," Raven sighs, like she's talking to a wooden plank. "Don't you get anything out of it?"

"I get—" Lexa flushes and lowers her voice to say, "...I get sex."

"And as I mentioned before, you can get that from anywhere. What's the catch, Lexa?"

It's...it's...

Well, damn—what the fuck is it?

"I mean, I wanted to help her," Lexa says, but that's only part of it. It'd be a plain lie to say she did this only for Clarke's benefit and not her own, but faced with Raven's intensity, Lexa lies anyway. "Clarke's my friend, and that's what friends do. They help each other."

And gross—that almost sounded like something straight out of a PBS Kids special, and Lexa forces herself not to cringe at the bland taste of that phrase in her mouth.

Apparently Raven tastes the bullshit too. "Actually, no," she says, laughing at the pure nonsense of it all. "If Octavia was having problems in her sex life, I would offer a listening ear, not a lickjob."

It's still the middle of the night, Lexa remembers, suddenly, and they both have responsibilities in the morning—responsibilities that are way more important than this absurd conversation, and so with a sigh, Lexa asks, "What do you want from me, Raven?"

Raven only offers a tight-lipped smile and says, "I think the better question is, what do you want from Clarke?"

//

It's like nothing ever happened—the confessions, the tears, the blatant hope in Clarke's eyes for more—and Lexa thought she'd like it this way, but it's only showing her how much they're risking their friendship by tip-toeing around something that's there but cannot be discussed without confessions, or tears, or the blatant hope in Clarke's eyes for more.

At this point, you'd have to be blind not to see the change in their friendship, their _relationship_ —it's written all over the unspoken words, the lingering touches, the longing looks—and it doesn't take long, not long at all, for Octavia to approach Lexa and say, "You guys are still sleeping together, aren't you?"

The music is loud enough to cover Octavia's words, so thankfully no one hears, but Lexa's starting to wonder if it even matters anymore. They all know. Maybe they always knew—if anything, no one was surprised the first time it happened; why would they be surprised now?

"Chug, chug, chug," she hears, faintly, coming from inside the kitchen, and Lexa picks Clarke's voice out of the many. She'd leave it to her supersonic-hearing, but the truth is—Clarke's voice is a constant in Lexa's head these days. It'd be impossible for her not to recognize it.

Another weekend, another party—this time at Monty's place. They're not celebrating anything, really, other than their rebellious youth and the fact they're all employed for once, and Lexa's glad for the excuse to drink even though there's a million and one reasons why she shouldn't. First reason—the girl a few yards away from her in the kitchen, probably drinking as well. Second reason—Lexa's ego inflates when she's intoxicated. Third reason—Clarke's filter _deflates_ when she's intoxicated.

Like dark and light liquor, not the greatest mix.

Lexa's already two shots in, and she doesn't really feel like talking about this tonight, so all she can offer Octavia is a sloppy shrug.

Apparently, that's not enough for Octavia. "Clarke's shutting me out," she whispers beneath the music, "and I think it's because she knows that I wouldn't approve of whatever it is she's doing with you."

Lexa had hoped that tonight could be drama-free, but that's almost impossible with her friends. "Of course Raven told you."

"You're only hurting her, Lexa."

"She came to _my_ door."

"And as a friend, it's your job to send her away," Octavia reasons. "You know how she feels about you."

"How she thinks she feels about me."

Octavia stills. Disbelief paints her voice when she says, "Are we really still on this?"

Yeah, they're still on this, because, "If you and Lincoln slept together before you realized he had feel—"

"No, Lexa, no more hypotheticals," Octavia sighs, ripping the can of beer out of Lexa's hand. "This isn't my relationship you're ruining, it's your own."

And she's right. Lexa hates to admit it—she hates it _so_ damn much—but Octavia's right, and continuing this with Clarke is not only hypocritical—it's advantageous.

Jasper and Lincoln sidle up to them, interrupting Octavia's stare down, and Jasper says, "You guys will never guess who I ran into the other day. He's been in the area recently, and I told him about the party Monty was throwing—"

She zones out of Jasper's story to look for Clarke. After a peek in the kitchen and then a quick scan of the living room, Lexa spots Clarke heading toward the bathroom, and so she follows after her down the hallway, calling out, "Clarke, wait," but Clarke only looks at her before slipping inside the bathroom.

Lexa's expecting to get pulled inside, but then there's a door in her face, and Lexa has to think over and wonder if she did or said anything wrong lately.

"Clarke," Lexa groans, tapping her knuckles against the door, "We need to talk."

"I can't talk right now, Lex," she hears, muffled through the door.

"Look, I'm sorry about how I've been handling every—"

"Lex, I'm—"

"—but it's just so frustrating when everyone has their own opinion about us, and I'm..." She stops what she's saying and takes a moment to breathe, to think. "I just—I don't know how to feel when all of our friends just won't let us figure out our shit for ourselves."

The door finally opens, and Clarke stands there with this tiny smile curving at her lips. "Lexa," Clarke sighs, but her tiny smile only widens into a full grin, and well—she doesn't look upset at all, just super amused. "I understand what you mean, okay? They've been hassling me too. Just give me a minute to pee, and then we can talk."

"Oh," Lexa mumbles, her cheeks hot, "Of course. I'll just—be out here."

The door closes again, and Lexa stands there awkwardly for a moment before turning and leaning up against the wall, but as she waits for Clarke to finish peeing, a pair of footsteps slowly approach her from behind, and Lexa's expecting Octavia or Raven, maybe even Lincoln, to offer up their unsolicited advice, but then—

"Lexa Woods?"

Lexa would recognize that voice anywhere, mostly because it's all she'd hear during her freshman year of college when he and Clarke dated for those ten months that really felt more like a century.

She swivels around and it's—why must this week suck so much? "Finn," she greets, painting on a tight smile. "What are you—I mean, how are you?"

"I'm good, yeah," he says, flipping his too-long hair to the side. "How about you? You and Clarke still friends?"

"Mhm," she barely manages, because— _friends_.

"By the way, where is she?" Finn asks, looking around.

"I, um—" She contemplates telling the truth, but then they'd both be here, together, awkwardly awaiting Clarke's exit from the bathroom, and well—Lexa doesn't really feel like dealing with the inconvenience of awkwardness tonight. She gets enough of that on a daily basis with her friends' inability to mind their own business, and so she tells him, "I think I saw Clarke in the kitchen last." Sure, it's a blatant lie, but it's for the greater good.

She hooks her thumb around the corner, and Finn offers up a charming smile before walking off to follow her thumb.

Just then, the door to the bathroom opens, and Clarke comes out with a cheeky smirk. "Was that Finn?" she asks, and Lexa nods, because she'll lie to dumb boys, but she won't lie to Clarke. Clarke's eyes scan over Lexa's expression, over the tightness of her jawline and the clearness in her eyes, and Lexa tries her best to calm her features, but it must be too late, for Clarke knits her eyebrows in confusion and then asks, "Lexa, you're—are you jealous?"

Lexa almost scoffs before catching herself. "I'm protective."

"You sent him away," Clarke drawls, smiling up at Lexa in amusement, "because you want me all to yourself, don't you?"

"I guess I'm a little...possessive too."

She shrugs because it's no big deal, but Clarke only looks at her for a long time, like she doesn't quite understand her. She looks to be fighting between a smile and frown, but a frown wins out in the end when she says, "Well—you can't have everything, Lexa."

"I don't want everything," Lexa says, defensive, as she leans up against the wall, "I only want—"

She catches herself, once again. She swallows those words, because it's just—too much. Way too much for a Saturday night and two shots and half a beer in her system.

"You only want what, Lexa?" Clarke asks, eyes wide and searching.

"I only want..."

Her words evaporate into nothing, and Clarke stares at her, for a long time, and then finally just shakes her head, clearly disappointed. "Wow," she scoffs, her smile bitter. "You can't even admit to yourself that you want me."

Breathing deeply, Lexa flares her nostrils. "Clarke, please—"

"Lexa, just—hear me out, okay?" Clarke interrupts, and so Lexa shuts her mouth for once and allows Clarke to continue. "I'm not pressuring you into feeling the same way—I would _never_ do that to you, Lex, but...if you don't feel that way, at least a little bit, then why does Finn being here bother you so much?"

Lexa folds her arms over her chest. "That's not bothering me. He's just—you know that kid always gets under my skin."

"Bullshit."

"It’s not bullshit."

"I don’t know, Lexa, it kinda sounds like bullshit to me." Her words are cold, but her body, her actions—they say otherwise. Clarke steps closer and lightly tugs at Lexa's crossed arms until they fall away at her sides. "C'mon, it's more than just that, isn't it?"

Lexa's chin wobbles, but her mouth doesn't open. No matter how hard she tries, she just can't say it. Clarke had her turn, so now it's Lexa time to feel—to be annoyed, to be sad, to be angry.

But Clarke must take Lexa's silence for defiance, for she breathes steadily through her nose and then mutters, "Right, of course," as if she knows what's going on inside Lexa's head, which is funny, actually, considering Lexa doesn't even know.

It's more than frustrating, when she can't even figure _herself_ out. It irks at her pride, at her inability to open up, at all of her insecurities when it comes to Clarke. And in her irritation, in her explosive nature, Lexa finds herself venomously asking, "Will you go off with Finn now?"

There's a beat, an odd jolt in the rhythm of their argument, and Clarke takes a step back, clearly surprised. "Why would I—what?"

"That night," Lexa whispers, eyes itching with the sudden urge to cry, but she won't—not here, not now, "You had sex with me, but then you ran off to Wells." And it'd only be foolish of her to think that it won't happen again, like it always happens, because that's what Clarke does—she makes you love her, and then she leaves you behind.

Apparently, though, this is news to Clarke, as all she can do is look at Lexa in total bafflement, caught completely off guard. "Is that what—" Clarke takes another step back to give them both some room, and Lexa allows herself to breathe for the first time in weeks. "Have you been carrying that with you this entire time, Lex?" Clarke asks, blue eyes weary, lips turned downward into a thoughtful frown. "Is that why you won't let yourself feel for me? You're afraid I'll leave you again?"

_Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke?_

Lexa turns to look away, but Clarke only bows her head to catch Lexa's eye. "Lexa, please, just—what is it? What is it, _really?_ "

_Whoever she touches, she always seems to hurt._

"It's nothing."

_It's not done intentionally, but it always..._

"It's definitely something," Clarke says, her voice rising over the music in her frustration. She tampers it down quickly, though, and adds, "Look, I have a bad rep of...inadvertently hurting the people I care for, I know, but—with you, it's different. _We're_ different."

"Clarke—" Tears form in her eyes again, but Lexa takes a deep breath to push them away before quietly asking, "Why did you leave?"

She asked this same question over two months ago, but Clarke never answered her.

All she had said was _I'm sorry_.

Lexa's sorry too, but for different things, for different reasons.

_Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? Where's..._

Suddenly, there's determination in Clarke's steely, blue eyes. "I left that night because I was...I was..." She trails off, welcoming the silence, but Lexa waits for more—waits to find out where this is going, what the excuse will be this time. "I left because I was drunk and confused and ashamed and... _scared_ , but—I didn't run off to Wells to get away from you," Clarke tells her, earnestly, with an urgency to her voice that practically forces Lexa to listen, to believe, "I never knew how much that hurt you, but now that I do—I'm so sorry, Lexa."

_Whoever she touches, she always seems to—_

_It's not done intentionally, but it—_

" _This_ —it isn't just sex for me." Clarke trails her fingertips over Lexa's collarbone, up her neck, and then holds Lexa's chin up so that they're eye to eye. "This isn't just convenience. This isn't something I'm going to run away from, okay?"

 

_Whoever she touches, she al—_

_It's not done intention—_

"This is _real_ , Lex," Clarke reassures her, "And I'm staying this time."

It almost seems too good to be true, but then that irksome consistency of _Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke? Where's Clarke?_ starts to flow away, and Wells' haunting words of _Whoever she touches, she always seems to hurt_ readily does the same, and Lexa's met with a calm in her heart that she hasn't felt since the night of that party.

She hesitates, for only a moment, and tries to ignore the gurgle in her voice when she asks, "You're staying?"

"I'm staying," Clarke says, gently resting their foreheads together. "I'm staying."

Lexa presses up against Clarke, hands on her hips. She completely ignores the fact that their friends are right down the hallway, less than ten feet away from them, and gives Clarke a tender kiss on the lips, barely a touch, barely a full press, but it makes Clarke shiver nonetheless.

They stay in that position for a long moment, breathing each other in, before Clarke dips her head and nudges their lips together, yearning for another kiss, and Lexa welcomes her, tampering her need with an equally passionate kiss that leaves them both breathless.

Wrapped in Clarke's arms, Lexa is free from the burden of her fears—the fear that, one day, she'd wake up, and Clarke would no longer be there, and so, for the first time, Lexa opens herself up, heart and body alike, and allows herself to _really_ feel for Clarke in the way she deserves. And it's so overwhelming—the sudden strength of her love—that a single tear escapes and then slides down her cheek when she blinks her eyes.

"Lex," Clarke whispers against her lips. "Will you stay too?"

Lexa breathes, her chest expanding and then caving against Clarke's beating heart. "I'm not going anywhere."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long :/ enjoy!

Holding Clarke in her arms, breathing one another in under the very fresh confession of affection that goes way beyond just friendship, they easily welcome the sight of each other's shy smiles, hopeful gazes, nervous giggles, but unfortunately, as much as this may feel like their own personal bubble, they're still surrounded by people, and the fact of the matter is—well, they can't stay in Jasper's dark hallway forever, not if they want to get caught making out by someone who needs to pee, so Clarke pulls away, with something different in her blue eyes, something Lexa sees and understands as whole, as _complete_ , and she whispers, "My roommates have a gig uptown tonight," which, for them, means an empty studio, an empty place for she and Clarke to fill on their own, to _be_ on their own.

Lexa's all for it—she just wants to be with Clarke, without the distractions of the party, the interruption of their friends, or the oncoming headache from the mind-numbing music blasting throughout the entire apartment.

Clarke ravels their fingers together and leads the charge through the humid, gyrating crowd of dancing college kids and towards the door. She checks back, glancing over her shoulder every now and then, as if Lexa would be anywhere but behind her, following Clarke to wherever she wants to take her.

There almost seems to be something like amazement in her eyes, like she can't quite believe this is happening, that they're feeling the same way, going to the same place, finally, for once, and Lexa's feeling close to the same exhilarating thing.

They manage to make it to the front door before sneaking off—of course they receive a few side-glances in their direction, but everyone's pretty dumb drunk at this point, and the only eyes that do follow them all the way to the exit and cause an uncomfortable shiver to flow up Lexa's spine are the eyes of...

...Wells.

//

They're finally alone, and Clarke is noticeably flustered and anxious, and Lexa wants to calm her, wants to make her feel like this is real, that she's not imagining this, and so she kisses her where they sit on the couch, kisses her gently and revels in the sound of Clarke's hum of approval as they fall back together, Lexa comfortably on top, her knee tucked snuggly between the couch and Clarke's hipbone. They quickly get lost in the feeling, lost in each other's eyes and soft touches, never asking for more because finally, _finally_ , they know what this is—it's not only sex, it's not only necessity, it's not only ability—it's...it's...

Well, whatever it is, Lexa's loving it. She pulls away to rest their foreheads together, and whispers, "Hey."

Clarke smiles, eyes full of something that is pure affection, and she lets out a soft laugh. "Hey yourself."

They lay that way for a while, reveling in the silence, the mesmerizing sound of each other's breathing, until Lexa shifts a little, her nose in silky, blonde hair as she rests her cheek on Clarke's shoulder.

Clarke's eyes are getting heavy—they keep opening and shutting but Lexa's selfish and she wants to keep looking into them. "You're falling asleep," she whispers, and Clarke offers up a sleepy smile and says, "No, you are."

"I'm not tired at all," _not anymore_ , "I could stay up all night."

Everything seems to exhaust her, but not Clarke—not those eyes. It's like looking into space, up at the stars, like she's soaring, and she hopes Clarke sees something in her eyes too—maybe the earth, something to keep her grounded and safe, because there's a reason Clarke runs, but Lexa wants to be the one who makes Clarke want to stay, to bring her back home when she's lost, to keep her safe when she's in danger, to protect her when she's scared, to be with her when she's lonely, to hold her hand when she feels like floating away.

"You want to?"

Lexa raises a brow. "Hm?"

"Stay up all night," Clarke specifies, leaning up to peck Lexa's lips, "All I'd need is a cup of coffee."

It's Saturday night, and neither of them have work in the morning, neither of them are running off with other things to do, neither of them have any excuses for why they can't be here; they have all night to each other, and now more than ever, they don't want to spend that time sleeping.

After weeks of broken discussions and misunderstandings and messy communication, all Lexa wants to do is talk, and Clarke seems to want to do the same, so Lexa nods and smiles, and then Clarke asks, "Do you wanna cup?"

"Black, please."

She rolls her eyes with a smirk. "I swear, you drink so much black coffee that you're gonna have it running through your veins soon."

"Black blood?" Lexa allows a cheeky smile to spread across her lips. "That'd be kind of awesome."

Clarke slowly sits up, pulling Lexa onto her lap as she does so. She keeps their faces close and then brushes her nose up against Lexa's. "Only you'd think that, nerd."

"You like that I'm a nerd," she whispers, stealing a kiss, and then another, and then another, until Clarke can do nothing but smile into those kisses. "I think it's your favorite thing about me."

"I have many favorite things about you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and I'll tell you all about it when I get back," Clarke says, patting Lexa on the ass so that she'll scoot over, "Now don't fall asleep, okay?"

"Never."

"You'll be awake when I get back?"

"Always."

"Promise?"

"Forever."

This time it's Clarke who steals a kiss before pushing herself off of the couch. "You're gushy when you're sleepy."

"I'm wide awake, Clarke," and it's true—she is. She can see everything so much more clearly now. The things that used to matter, don't, and the things that used to seem so trivial, aren't. It's who you care about that matters, and it's how they make you feel that matters. It's how you make them feel, and it's being together. That's what matters.

It's two in the morning and they should be exhausted, but Lexa feels wide awake, for the first time ever, so when Clarke comes back with their coffee, they end up talking for hours upon hours upon hours, gladly exchanging conversation for sex and gladly fucking up their sleep schedules.

They're up until about six in the morning, wrapped up in one shared blanket as they hold each other close—because they've been far away for much too long—whispering about their hopes, about their dreams, especially the one that Lexa had two nights ago about a spaceship that crash-landed on earth that harbored humans who had been lost in space for years, looking and searching and wishing for home.

She thinks it's a metaphor for her relationship with Clarke, while Clarke thinks her dream is true, explaining, "Maybe it was a memory. Maybe all of this happened in a past life, or maybe it hasn't happened at all yet."

"Or maybe I can see the future," Lexa jokes.

Clarke licks her lips and then asks, "If you can see the future, what do you see for us?"

And that's not an unscary topic, she'll admit, but all Lexa has to do is gaze into those ocean blue eyes, and she _knows_ , she knows that, "I see...I see a story of two girls, one from the sky, one from the earth, but together—together they rule the universe."

"I like that story," Clarke whispers, "You think it'll ever come true?"

Lexa shrugs, a small smile curving at her lips as she leans forward to press them against Clarkes'. "Maybe someday."

//

Work isn't exhausting anymore—nothing is.

She's got a new pep to her step. Her usual brooding attitude has been taken over by someone she doesn't recognize and it's exhilarating, this feeling, but it's also kind of scary, because she's never quite felt this way before, and what if it's only temporary, what if she messes it up, what if she does or says the wrong thing? It's overwhelming and exciting and nauseating and...and...and—

Maya looks at her sideways. "You seem oddly...cheery?"

Lexa ducks her head and smiles to herself. "Had an awesome weekend," she explains vaguely.

"I can see that," Maya teases." What happened?"

And of course Lexa is too shy to say, but a flood of heat does brighten her cheeks, so she's certain that gives Maya the answer she needs.

"Well, if it makes you this happy, it must be amazing."

Lexa flushes even more.

She is.

//

The next time they're out with all their friends, it's at Clarke's art showcase at a fancy gallery in downtown Manhattan, and Lexa goes as Clarke's date, of course, but they don't say anything to their friends about their change in status because, frankly, it's none of their business. If any of them have been paying any attention at all, it should be pretty obvious anyway.

She's not entirely sure what they are—they seem to be undefined, at this point—but confessions have been made and feelings have been established, so they're definitely _something_.

She's fine with that. She can work with something, because something is better than nothing, so she'll take something any day over not having Clarke at all.

They don't do the whole public displays of affection thing, not in front of their friends, not yet, because for one, kind of weird, knowing they're all watching and wondering and waiting, and two, it just seems like the right way to go, specifically out of respect for Wells.

Their whole sexual relationship began with Clarke cheating on him with Lexa, so how would that look, to their friends, to Wells, to anyone who might know of their situation, that suddenly they're together, practically rubbing their relationship in Wells' face?

They do hold hands though, and that gets a few odd looks, but no one says anything, other than Raven, who mutters a quiet, "Finally," under her breath, as if she knew the entire time, which—she was the last to find out, so it's a little amusing and a little annoying at the same time.

Everyone knows now, so it's definitely a relief, and Lexa almost allows herself to breathe, _almost_ , but then she catches Wells' side-eye, his long stare at their clutched hands, and she has to wonder, really wonder to herself, _did_ he know?

"He'd have to be living under a rock," Clarke says, sipping from her flute of champagne, "I mean, when we hung out that week, all I could talk about was you."

"We never did actually tell him though," Lexa reasons, and it's true—they kind of just left it up to him to figure out, and Lexa's starting wonder if that was the right way to handle this.

Things always look different in hindsight, and by that, she means they always look shittier compared to what should have been done, what actions _should_ have been taken, and Lexa will admit, she'll be the first to admit, that what they did to Wells was plain shitty.

//

One of Clarke's pieces on display is the painting from that night—the night of Lincoln's birthday party, the party that Clarke failed to attend, driving Lexa into a passionate rage that quickly turned into muted affection upon witnessing this very painting—and it's a little weird, seeing it all complete after only witnessing the brokenness of the unfinished product a few weeks back.

It had seemed so choppy and angry, the edges sharp and the strokes messy, but upon second glance, all Lexa can see is an abundance of reds and pinks and oranges—passionate, vibrant colors that stand out against the black, teary-eyed mask that covers the fiery background.

"Like what you see?" Clarke drawls, coming up from behind Lexa.

Lexa smiles when Clarke wraps an arm around her waist to bring her closer. "I like it so much that I just might have to buy it."

Clarke smirks and then glances around before pressing a quick peck to Lexa's cheek, causing Lexa's small smile to widen into a stupid grin. Clarke giggles beside her and knocks their hips together with this _look_ that Lexa knows too well, and she wants to embrace the moment, fall deep into the feeling of Clarke's affection, but sometimes—this all just seems way too good to be real.

Like most sayings, it doesn't make any sense and not one person alive probably knows its origin, but that doesn't mean the other shoe won't eventually drop. It'll drop anyway, without any regard to how good things have been for the last eight and a half days. Lexa's knows it. She's practically waiting for it.

Loving your best friend—that's how God intended love to be, she's sure of it—and it's been so good, _so good_ , but something bad will happen, she can almost feel it.

Raven will come over and open her big mouth, after drinking one too many glasses of champagne, and she'll make an incredibly inappropriate joke, for all to hear, about lickjobs, more than likely. She's probably the only person in all of New York who calls it that, but that won't even be the annoying part, the aggravating part, the excruciatingly angering part—no, that will be the instance where she'll say, in front of everyone, in front of Lexa, in front of _Clarke_ , that, "The accurate delivery of a lickjob caused me to lose my orgasm virginity too, Clarke," and it won't be overtly telling, not everyone will catch on, but Clarke's pink cheeks, her gaping mouth, that devastating look of betrayal on her face when she'll meet Lexa's eyes—well, that'll be pretty telling.

Clarke hands off her flute to Lexa when a prospective buyer approaches asking about the painting before them. " _The Commander_ is a very interesting name for this piece," the old woman says, carefully inspecting the artwork. "What was the motivation behind it?"

Lexa wouldn't be able to tune out of this conversation even if she wanted to, and so she makes sure to listen closely to Clarke's response when she says, "It started out as a lover's, um—not exactly their inability to love but as a defense against justified vulnerabilities. I was admittedly angry when I started this piece, but by the end, I guess I had found some peace in my heart, and along with that peace, I found...love."

It's not entirely surprising, this sudden profession of love, openly expressed to a third party instead of to herself, but it does cause this annoying little flutter in her chest that has Lexa taking a hearty gulp of champagne as Clarke continues to do what she does best, and that is to persuade, persuade, persuade.

Lexa looks over to the other side of the gallery, where Raven and Octavia are browsing the sculptures of sexually unorthodox pieces, and she goes to approach them when Wells appears, cutting her off from her preferred destination.

She and Wells have never been super close, seeing as they only know each other through Clarke, so it's no wonder an awkward air falls over them as soon as Wells clinks his glass against her own and says, "You and I—always doing what is best for Clarke, yeah?"

It's the last thing she was expecting to hear, but instead of going on the defensive, like she's used to doing, Lexa only narrows her eyes and responds, "I mean, that is what best friends are for, right? Doing what is best for each other."

Wells shrugs. "I don't know," he mutters, staring down into his glass in thought. "That sort of thing tends to get a little bit murky once you mix friendship with pleasure. In my experience, at least."

"In _your_ experience," Lexa agrees, smiling despite her irritation, but Wells picks up on it because he's a smart kid, and strange enough, he and Lexa are a lot alike, she'll admit it. They're faithful to a fault, letting their guard down for love time and time again, letting their feelings trump their morals time and time again, letting Clarke take over their protective instincts and bleeding hearts time and time again.

Wells clears his throat, cutting into the awkward silence that's fallen between them. "I just wanted to say," he starts, shuffling his feet in obvious discomfort, "I think it's great that you and Clarke have built something special out of such an...odd situation."

Odd.

Odd?

It's an odd word to use, in Lexa's opinion, and she cringes internally at Wells' use of the word. Odd is synonymous to unusual, to different, to irregular. She wants to question it, but she doesn't in order to protect her air of confidence, no matter how pretend or false it may truly be.  

"But I have to warn you, Lexa," Wells continues, and this time Lexa can't contain her exasperation, because _of course_ , another warning about Clarke. Really, she's had enough of Wells' warnings, thanks, but he goes on anyway, saying, "Clarke isn't...well, she can't...um—so I'm sure you're aware of Clarke's...problem by now."

That was literally the hardest sentence Lexa's ever had to listen to, but Wells gets it out, eventually, and once he does, all that follows is an empty silence between them. Lexa squints her eyes, and Wells quirks a brow, and it's as if they're stuck in limbo, each trying to understand what the other means by simply starting into each other's eyes.

"Problem?" Lexa mumbles, confused, but then a light bulb goes off and _oh!_ In usual cases, her cheeks would turn pink and her mouth would go dry, but all Lexa feels is this intense rush of annoyance that Wells is standing here bothering her with something that is frankly none of this business. Not anymore. "I don't know what you're talking about, Wells," she drawls, lifting her shoulder into a half-shrug. "Clarke doesn't have any _problems_ when she's with me."

She shouldn't be talking to Clarke's ex boyfriend, not about their sex life, not about sex at all, but sometimes, all Lexa has is her pride, her ego—it's her downfall, but it makes her feel better, especially when faced up against someone who thinks they know Clarke better than her.

Wells only stares at her, but his eyes get darker, darker than they were before, and it's weird—like, she's never seen him angry before. His nostrils flare, and despite his complexion, he looks a little flushed, and Lexa comes to the slow realization that, yes, he's definitely angry, but he's also embarrassed, and fuck—Clarke would be so pissed if she could see them right now. They're two of her favorite people, Lexa knows, and _this_ , them trying to one-up each other in this way, it's so fucked up and just completely _wrong_.

"I'm sorry," Lexa says, but Wells doesn't seem to want to accept her apology. He bites his lip, hard, and it's—well, he looks hurt, and really, Lexa knows that all you need to do in order to hurt a guy's feelings is to mention how inept they are sexually.

It's kind of sad, but it's also kind of...relatable.

"Why are you sorry?" he asks, downing the rest of his drink in one swift gulp. "Clarke wanted you. You wanted Clarke. Now you're together. Everything worked out for the best, right?"

Guilt pricks at her conscience, causing a pretty brutal headache to come on. "We didn't mean to hurt you, Wells."

Wells only gives her a look. "Who's hurt?" he mutters, tightening his grip around his glass before walking off.

//

She doesn't see Clarke for another hour, not until the very end of the event, and Lexa had planned on telling Clarke about her little run-in with Wells, about how he called their situation _odd_ of all things, about her guilt over the obvious heartbreak they put Wells through, but when Clarke approaches her with this glorious smile, her face flushed from all the praise she received for her artwork, Lexa can do nothing else but kiss her soundly on the lips, despite their no PDA rule, because she loves that smile, she loves when Clarke's happy, and that rush Lexa feels all over her body whenever she simply thinks of Clarke—it's so overwhelming to the point that everything else becomes an unimportant fog compared to what's in front of her.

Clarke smiles into the kiss, and it instantly makes everything better. Suddenly, there's no Wells, no guilt, no second-guessing, no regrets. There is only Clarke, and Lexa allows herself to smile too, taking Clarke's hand in her own and whispering, "Let's go home."

//

Video games with Lincoln is supposed to be part of her stress-relief, it's supposed to be the one thing that doesn't cause her blood pressure to rise, it's supposed to be her escape from reality, but then Lincoln pauses the game, mid-race, and says, "I know, okay?"

Lexa looks at him, and honestly, he could be talking about anything under the sun, so she mumbles out, "What?"

"This whole thing with Clarke," he adds, fumbling the controller in his big hands, "...how it all started."

"What are you talking about, Lincoln?"

He thinks she's playing dumb, Lexa can tell by the exasperated sigh that he releases before explaining himself. "Octavia told me, Lexa—what you can do for Clarke that others cannot," he says, awkwardly shifting in his beanbag chair. "What Finn couldn't, what Wells couldn't, what any of her past encounters haven't been able to accomplish."

Lincoln is not the type to bring up random gossip for no apparent reason. He's not like Raven or Octavia, wanting to know things just to know. He speaks with purpose, sharing information in order to help and guide, so before jumping to the worst reaction of embarrassment or anger, Lexa turns to Lincoln and calmly asks, "Where are you going with this?"

"I'm rooting for you guys, okay? I am, but what you guys did, that night, and even afterwards—it was kind of messed up," he says, and just because he's right doesn't make the words any easier to swallow, to digest. If anything, it makes her guilt, along with her heart rate, spike up twice as much, and especially so when Lincoln adds, "Wells has been pretty screwed up about it, and the guys have been talking, and well—they're taking his side. Octavia, Raven, and I...we, of course, don't want to do that, but they—"

"What are they saying?" she interrupts, a bite to her tone that she didn't necessarily mean to incorporate.

"It doesn't matter what—"

" _Lincoln_."

"I'm not trying to get in the middle of this, Lexa."

There's not an eye-roll big enough to express how she's currently feeling—the frustration, the exasperation, the rising anxiety. "It looks to me like you already are."

Lincoln sighs and toggles with the buttons on his controller. He's trapped and he knows it. "They're saying...well, they think you guys were already sleeping together way before Wells and Clarke broke up—that the night of the party is when you two were finally caught in the act," he says, and Lexa bites down on her lower lip, hard, and she doesn't look at Lincoln, refusing to show him how much this all hurts to hear.

Lexa squeezes the controller in her hand, so tightly that she's pretty sure she could break it if she really felt like it. The side-eyes, the short glances, the blithe remarks, the odd looks—she misjudged it all, thinking no one really cared, but in actuality, they cared more than Lexa and Clarke combined.

"I know it's not true, and I tried to tell them, but they won't listen. They're saying that since Wells' couldn't, _you know_ —that Clarke went to you instead, and honestly, Lexa...how else would it look?" Lincoln reasons, and Lexa's eyes dart to him, because he just said he refused to pick sides, but by what he's saying, it pretty much sounds like he's on Wells' side. Suddenly, it feels as if everyone is against her, and Lexa's not sure whether to be infuriated with them or with herself. "You two snuck around for months, behind Wells' and everyone's backs, you lying about Costia, and Clarke lying about with whom she'd been spending the night. I just—from the outside, it just doesn't look too good, you know?"

Her blood boils with a mixture of anger and betrayal, and she's usually so good at controlling her emotions, at keeping it all inside until it evaporates into nothing, but now, faced up against all of this stupid gossip and disgusting lies that's been swirling around behind her back, Lexa finds herself unable to handle anything, including how she feels.

Standing, she throws the controller into the couch, grabs her keys, and then storms out of the apartment, completely ignoring the sounds of Lincoln's protests in the background as she slams the door behind her.


End file.
